IN    WAR   TIME 


AND 


OTHER    POEMS. 


BY 


JOHN    GREENLEAF    WHITTIER. 


BOSTON : 
TICKNOR     AND     FIELDS. 

1864. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1863,  by 

JOHN    GKEENLEAF    WHITTIER, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


UNIVERSITY    PRESS: 

WELCH,    BIGELOW,    AND   COMPANY, 

CAMBRIDGE. 


7Y? 
SAMUEL   E.    SEWALL 

AND 

HARRIET    W.    SEWALL, 

OF  MELROSE. 

OLOR  ISCANUS  queries :  "  Why  should  we 

Vex  at  the  land's  ridiculous  miserie  ?  " 

So  on  his  Usk  banks,  in  the  blood-red  dawn 

Of  England's  civil  strife,  did  careless  Vaughan 

Bemock  his  times.     O  friends  of  many  years  ! 

Though  faith  and  trust  are  stronger  than  our  fears, 

And  the  signs  promise  peace  with  liberty, 

Not  thus  we  trifle  with  our  country's  tears 

And  sweat  of  agony.     The  future's  gain 

Is  certain  as  God's  truth ;  but,  meanwhile,  pain 

Is  bitter  and  tears  are  salt :  our  voices  take 

A  sober  tone ;  our  very  household  songs 

Are  heavy  with  a  nation's  griefs  and  wrongs ; 

And  innocent  mirth  is  chastened  for  the  sake 

Of  the  brave  hearts  that  nevermore  shall  beat, 

The  eyes  that  smile  no  more,  the  unreturning  feet ! 


395703 


CONTENTS 


IN    AVAR    TIME 

THY  WILL  BE  DONE 

A  WORD  FOR  THE  HOUR    . 

"ElN    FESTE    BURG    1ST    UNSER    GOTT " 

To  JOHN  C.  FREMONT 

THE  WATCHERS      .         .         . 

To  ENGLISHMEN  . 

ASTR^A  AT  THE  CAPITOL 

THE  BATTLE  AUTUMN  OF  1862    . 

MlTHRIDATES    AT    CHIOS  . 

THE  PROCLAMATION     . 
ANNIVERSARY  POEM         .         . 
AT  PORT  ROYAL 
BARBARA  FRIETCHIE        ... 


PAGE 
9 

12 
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58 


HOME    BALLAD  S 


COBBLER  KEEZAR'S  VISION 
AMY  WENTWORTH  . 
THE  COUNTESS    . 


66 
78 

88 


vi  CONTENTS. 

OCCASIONAL    POEMS. 

NAPLES.  — 1860.        .     '    .         .         ...         .  .101 

THE  SUMMONS      .         .         .         .         .  •       .  .         105 

THE  WAITING          .         .         .                  .         .  .     107 

MOUNTAIN  PICTURES. 

I.    FRANCONIA  FROM  THE  PEMIGEWASSET  .  .109 

II.    MONADNOCK  FROM  WACHUSET  .         .  .         112 

OUR  KIVER .116 

ANDREW  EYKMAN'S  PRAYER         .         .         .  .         121 

THE  CRY  OF  A  LOST  SOUL    .         .         .         .  .133 

ITALY  .         .         . 137 

THE  RIVER  PATH    .         .         .         .         .         .  .140 

A  MEMORIAL.     M.  A.  C.     .         .         .         .  .         144 

HYMN  SUNG  AT   CHRISTMAS  BY  THE   SCHOLARS  OF 

ST.  HELENA'S  ISLAND,  S.  C.              .         .  .150 


IN    WAR    TIME 


THY  WILL   BE   DONE. 


WE  see  not,  know  not ;  all  our  way 
Is  night,  —  with  Thee  alone  is  day 
From  out  the  torrent's  troubled  drift, 
Above  the  storm  our  prayers  we  lift, 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 

The  flesh  may  fail,  the  heart  may  faint, 
But  who  are  we  to  make  complaint, 
Or  dare  to  plead,  in  times  like  these, 
The  weakness  of  our  love  of  ease  ? 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 


10  IN  WAR   TIME. 

We  take  with  solemn  thankfulness 
Our  burden  up,  nor  ask  it  less, 
And  count  it  joy  that  even  we 
May  suffer,  serve,  or  wait  for  Thee, 
Whose  will  be  done  ! 

Though  dim  as  yet  in  tint  and  line, 
We  trace  Thy  picture's  wise  design, 
And  thank  Thee  that  our  age  supplies 
Its  dark  relief  of  sacrifice. 
Thy  will  be  done ! 

And  if,  in  our  unworthiness, 
Thy  sacrificial  wine  we  press 
If  from  Thy  ordeal's  heated  bars 
Our  feet  are  seamed  with  crimson  scars, 
Thy  will  be  done ! 

If,  for  the  age  to  come,  this  hour 
Of  trial  hath  vicarious  power, 


THY  WILL  BE  DONE. 

And,  blest  by  Thee,  our  present  pain 
Be  Liberty's  eternal  gain, 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 

Strike,  Thou  the  Master,  we  Thy  keys, 
The  anthem  of  the  destinies  ! 
The  minor  of  Thy  loftier  strain, 
Our  hearts  shall  breathe  the  old  refrain, 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 


A  WORD   FOR  THE    HOUR. 

THE    firmament    breaks    up.      In    black 
eclipse 

Light  after  light  goes  out.     One  evil  star, 
Luridly  glaring  through  the  smoke  of  war, 
As  in  the  dream  of  the  Apocalypse, 
Drags  others  down.     Let  us  not  weakly  weep 
Nor  rashly  threaten.     Give  us  grace  to  keep 
Our  faith  and  patience  ;  wherefore  should  we 

leap 

On  one  hand  into  fratricidal  fight, 
Or,  on  the  other,  yield  eternal  right, 
Frame  lies  of  law,  and  good  and  ill  confound  ? 
What   fear  we?     Safe   on   freedom's   vantage 

ground 


A    WORD  FOR    THE  HOUR.  13 

Our  feet  are  planted :  let  us  there  remain 
In  unrevengeful  calm,  no  means  untried 
Which  truth  can  sanction,  no  just  claim  denied, 
The  sad  spectators  of  a  suicide  ! 
They  break  the  links  of  Union :  shall  we  light 
The  fires  of  hell  to  weld  anew  the  chain 
On  that  red  anvil  where  each  blow  is  pain  ? 
Draw  we  not  even  now  a  freer  breath, 
As  from  our  shoulders  falls  a  load  of  death 
Loathsome  as  that  the  Tuscan's  victim  bore 
When  keen  with  life  to  a  dead  horror  bound  ? 
Why  take  we  up  the  accursed  thing  again  ? 
Pity,  forgive,  but  urge  them  back  no  more 
Who,  drunk  with  passion,  flaunt  disunion's  rag 
With  its  vile  reptile  blazon.     Let  us  press 
The  golden  cluster  on  our  brave  old  flag 
In  closer  union,  and,  if  numbering  less, 
Brighter  shall  shine  the  stars  which  still  re 
main. 

16th,  1st  month,  1861. 


«EIN   FESTE   BURG   1ST   UNSER   GOTT." 

(LUTHER'S  HYMN.) 

WE  wait  beneath  the  furnace-blast 
The  pangs  of  transformation  ; 
Not  painlessly  doth  God  recast 
And  mould  anew  the  nation. 
Hot  burns  the  fire 
Where  wrongs  expire ; 
Nor  spares  the  hand 
That  from  the  land 
Uproots  the  ancient  evil. 

The  hand-breadth  cloud  the  sages  feared 
Its  bloody  rain  is  dropping ; 


LUTHER'S  HYMN.  15 

The  poison  plant  the  fathers  spared 
All  else  is  overtopping. 
East,  West,  South,  North, 
It  curses  the  earth ; 
All  justice  dies, 
And  fraud  and  lies 
Live  only  in  its  shadow. 

What  gives  the  wheat-field  blades  of  steel  ? 

What  points  the  rebel  cannon  ? 
What  sets  the  roaring  rabble's  heel 
On  the  old  star-spangled  pennon  ? 
What  breaks  the  oath 
Of  the  men  o'  the  South  ? 
What  whets  the  knife 
For  the  Union's  life  ?  - 
Hark  to  the  answer  :  Slavery  ! 

Then  waste  no  blows  on  lesser  foes 
In  strife  unworthy  freemen. 


16  IN   WAR    TIME. 

God  lifts  to-day  the  vail,  and  shows 
The  features  of  the  demon  ! 

0  North  and  South, 

Its  victims  both, 

Can  ye  not  cry, 

"Let  slavery  die  !  " 
And  union  find  in  freedom  ? 

What  though  the  cast-out  spirit  tear 

The  nation  in  his  going  ? 
We  who  have  shared  the  guilt  must  share 
The  pang  of  his  o'erthr owing  ! 
Whate'er  the  loss, 
Whate'er  the  cross, 
Shall  they  complain 
Of  present  pain 
Who  trust  in  God's  hereafter  ? 

For  who  that  leans  on  His  right  arm 
Was  ever  yet  forsaken  ? 


LUTHER'S  HYMN.  17 

What  righteous  cause  can  suffer  harm 
If  He  its  part  has  taken  ? 

Though  wild  and  loud 

And  dark  the  cloud 

Behind  its  folds 

His  hand  upholds 
The  calm  sky  of  to-morrow  ! 

Above  the  maddening  cry  for  blood, 

Above  the  wild  war-drumming, 
Let  Freedom's  voice  be  heard,  with  good 
The  evil  overcoming. 
Give  prayer  and  purse 
To  stay  the  Curse 
Whose  wrong  we  share. 
Whose  shame  we  bear, 
Whose  end  shall  gladden  Heaven  ! 

In  vain  the  bells  of  war  shall  ring 
Of  triumphs  and  revenges, 
2 


18  IN   WAR    TIME. 

While  still  is  spared  the  evil  thing 
That  severs  and  estranges. 
But  blest  the  ear 
That  yet  shall  hear 
The  jubilant  bell 
That  rings  the  knell 
Of  Slavery  forever ! 

Then  let  the  selfish  lip  be  dumb, 

And  hushed  the  breath  of  sighing ; 
Before  the  joy  of  peace  must  come 
The  pains  of  purifying. 
God  give  us  grace 
Each  in  his  place 
To  bear  his  lot, 
And,  murmuring  not, 
Endure  and  wait  and  labor ! 


TO  JOHN   C.   FREMONT. 

'  I  ^HY  error,  Fremont,  simply  was  to  act 
-L     A  brave  man's  part,  without  the  states 
man's  tact, 

And,  taking  counsel  but  of  common  sense, 
To  strike  at  cause  as  well  as  consequence. 
0,  never  yet  since  Roland  wound  his  horn 
At  Roncesvalles,  has  a  blast  been  blown 
Far-heard,  wide-echoed,  startling  as  thine  own, 
Heard  from  the  van  of  freedom's  hope  forlorn  ! 
It  had  been  safer,  doubtless,  for  the  time, 
To  flatter  treason,  and  avoid  offence 
To  that  Dark  Power  whose  underlying  crime 
Heaves  upward  its  perpetual  turbulence. 


20    ,  IN   WAR    TIME. 

But,  if  thine  be  the  fate  of  all  who  break 

The  ground  for  truth's  seed,  or  forerun  their 

years 

Till  lost  in  distance,  or  with  stout  hearts  make 
A  lane  for  freedom  through  the  level  spears, 
Still   take   thou    courage  !      God   has   spoken 

through  thee, 

Irrevocable,  the  mighty  words,  Be  free  ! 
The  land  shakes  with  them,  and  the  slave's 

dull  ear 

Turns  from  the  rice-swamp  stealthily  to  hear. 
Who  would  recall  them  now  must  first  arrest 
The  winds  that  blow  down  from  the  free  North 
west, 

Ruffling  the  Gulf ;  or  like  a  scroll  roll  back 
The  Mississippi  to  its  upper  springs. 
Such  words  fulfil  their  prophecy,  and  lack 
But  the  full  time  to  harden  into  things. 


THE   WATCHERS. 

BESIDE  a  stricken  field  I  stood  ; 
On  the  torn  turf,  on  grass  and  wood, 
Hung  heavily  the  dew  of  blood. 

Still  in  their  fresh  mounds  lay  the  slain, 
But  all  the  air  was  quick  with  pain 
And  gusty  sighs  and  tearful  rain. 

Two  angels,  each  with  drooping  head 
And  folded  wings  and  noiseless  tread, 
Watched  by  that  valley  of  the  dead. 


22  IN   WAR    TIME. 

The  one,  with  forehead  saintly  bland 
And  lips  of  blessing,  not  command, 
Leaned,  weeping,  on  her  olive  wand. 

The  other's  brows  were  scarred  and  knit, 
His  restless  eyes  were  watch-fires  lit, 
His  hands  for  battle-gauntlets  fit. 

"  How  long !  " — I  knew  the  voice  of  Peace, — 
"  Is  there  no  respite  ?  —  no  release  ?  — 
When  shall  the  hopeless  quarrel  cease  ? 

"  0  Lord,  how  long  !  —  One  human  soul 
Is  more  than  any  parchment  scroll, 
Or  any  flag  thy  winds  unroll. 

"  What  price  was  Ellsworth's,  young  and  brave  V 
How  weigh  the  gift  that  Lyon  gave, 
Or  count  the  cost  of  Winthrop's  grave  ? 


THE   WATCHERS.  23 

"  0  brother !  if  thine  eye  can  see, 
Tell  how  and  when  the  end  shall  be. 
What  hope  remains  for  thee  and  me." 

Then  Freedom  sternly  said :  "  I  shun 
No  strife  nor  pang  beneath  the  sun, 
When  human  rights  are  staked  and  won. 

"  I  knelt  with  Ziska's  hunted  flock, 
I  watched  in  Toussaint's  cell  of  rock, 
I  walked  with  Sidney  to  the  block. 

"  The  moor  of  Marston  felt  my  tread, 
Through  Jersey  snows  the  march  I  led, 
My  voice  Magenta's  charges  sped. 

"  But  now,  through  weary  day  and  night, 
I  watch  a  vague  and  aimless  fight 
For  leave  to  strike  one  blow  aright. 


24  IN   WAR    TIME. 

"  On  either  side  my  foe  they  own : 

One  guards  through  love  his  ghastly  throne, 

And  one  through  fear  to  reverence  grown. 

"  Why  wait  we  longer,  mocked,  betrayed, 

By  open  foes,  or  those  afraid 

To  speed  thy  coming  through  my  aid  ? 

"  Why  watch  to  see  who  win  or  fall  ?  - 

I  shake  the  dust  against  them  all, 

I  leave  them  to  their  senseless  brawl." 

"  Nay,"  Peace  implored  :  "  yet  longer  wait ; 
The  doom  is  near,  the  stake  is  great : 
God  knoweth  if  it  be  too  late. 

"  Still  wait  and  watch  ;  the  way  prepare 
Where  I  with  folded  wings  of  prayer 
May  follow,  weaponless  and  bare." 


THE    WATCHERS.  25 

\ 

"  Too  late  !  "  the  stern,  sad  voice  replied, 
"  Too  late  !  "  its  mournful  echo  sighed, 
In  low  lament  the  answer  died. 

A  rustling  as  of  wings  in  flight, 

An  upward  gleam  of  lessening  white, 

So  passed  the  vision,  sound  and  sight. 

But  round  me,  like  a  silver  bell 
Rung  down  the  listening  sky  to  tell 
Of  holy  help,  a  sweet  voice  fell. 

"  Still  hope  and  trust,"  it  sang;  "  the  rod 
Must  fall,  the  wine-press  must  be  trod, 
But  all  is  possible  with  God  !  " 


TO  ENGLISHMEN. 

YOU  flung  your  taunt  across  the  wave  ; 
We  bore  it  as  became  us, 
Well  knowing  that  the  fettered  slave 
Left  friendly  lips  no  option  save 
To  pity  or  to  blame  us. 

You  scoffed  our  plea.     "  Mere  lack  of  will, 

Not  lack  of  power,"  you  told  us : 
We  showed  our  free-state  records ';  still 
You  mocked,  confounding  good  and  ill, 
Slave-haters  and  slaveholders. 

We  struck  at  Slavery  ;  to  the  verge 
Of  power  and  means  we  checked  it ; 


TO  ENGLISHMEN.  27 

Lo  !  —  presto,  change !  its  claims  you  urge, 
Send  greetings  to  it  o'er  the  surge, 
And  comfort  and  protect  it. 

But  yesterday  you  scarce  could  shake, 

In  slave-abhorring  rigor, 
Our  Northern  palms,  for  conscience'  sake  : 
To-day  you  clasp  the  hands  that  ache 

With  "  walloping  the  nigger !  "  * 

0  Englishmen  !  —  in  hope  and  creed, 
In  blood  and  tongue  our  brothers ! 

We  too  are  heirs  of  Runnymede  ; 

And  Shakespeare's  fame  and  Cromwell's  deed 
Are  not  alone  our  mother's. 

"  Thicker  than  water,''  in  one  rill 
Through  centuries  of  story 

*  See  English  caricatures  of  America:  Slaveholder  and  cow 
hide,  with  the  motto,  "  Have  n't  I  a  right  to  wallop  my  nigger?  " 


28  IN   WAR    TIME. 

Our  Saxon  blood  has  flowed,  and  still 
We  share  with  you  its  good  and  ill, 
The  shadow  and  the  glory. 

Joint  heirs  and  kinfolk,  leagues  of  wave 

Nor  length  of  years  can  part  us : 
Your  right  is  ours  to  shrine  and  grave, 
The  common  freehold  of  the  brave, 
The  gift  of  saints  and  martyrs. 

Our  very  sins  and  follies  teach 

Our  kindred  frail  and  human : 
We  carp  at  faults  with  bitter  speech, 
The  while  for  one  unshared  by  each 
We  have  a  score  in  common. 

We  bowed  the  heart,  if  not  the  knee, 

To  England's  Queen,  God  bless  her  ! 
We  praised  you  when  your  slaves  went  free 
We  seek  to  unchain  ours.     Will  ye 
Join  hands  with  the  oppressor  ? 


TO  ENGLISHMEN.  29 

And  is  it  Christian  England  cheers 

The  bruiser,  not  the  bruised  ? 
And  must  she  run,  despite  the  tears 
And  prayers  of  eighteen  hundred  years, 

A-muck  in  Slavery's  crusade  ? 

0  black  disgrace  !  0  shame  and  loss 
Too  deep  for  tongue  to  phrase  on  ! 

Tear  from  your  flag  its  holy  cross, 

And  in  your  van  of  battle  toss 
The  pirate's  skull-bone  blazon  ! 


ASTK^EA  AT   THE    CAPITOL. 

ABOLITION    OF    SLAVERY    IN    THE    DISTRICT    OF 
COLUMBIA,    1862. 

WHEN  first  I  saw  our  banner  wave 
Above  the  nation's  council-hall, 
I  heard  beneath  its  marble  wall 
The  clanking  fetters  of  the  slave ! 

In  the  foul  market-place  I  stood, 
And  saw  the  Christian  mother  sold, 
And  childhood  with  its  locks  of  gold, 

Blue-eyed  and  fair  with  Saxon  blood. 


ASTRJ2A   AT   THE   CAPITOL,  31 

I  shut  my  eyes,  I  held  my  breath, 

And,  smothering  down  the  wrath  and  shame 
That  set  my  Northern  blood  aflame, 

Stood  silent  —  where  to  speak  was  death. 

Beside  me  gloomed  the  prison-cell 
Where  wasted  one  in  slow  decline 
For  uttering  simple  words  of  mine, 

And  loving  freedom  all  too  well. 

The-  flag  that  floated  from  the  dome 
Flapped  menace  in  the  morning  air  ; 
I  stood  a  perilled  stranger  where 

The  human  broker  made  his  home. 

For  crime  was  virtue  :  Gown  and  Sword 
And  Law  their  threefold  sanction  gave, 
And  to  the  quarry  of  the  slave 

Went  hawking  with  our  symbol-bird. 


32  IN   WAR    TIME. 

On  the  oppressor's  side  was  power  ; 
And  yet  I  knew  that  every  wrong, 
However  old,  however  strong, 

But  waited  God's  avenging  hour. 

I  knew  that  truth  would  crush  the  lie,  — 
Somehow,  some  time,  the  end  would  be ; 
Yet  scarcely  dared  I  hope  to  see 

The  triumph  with  my  mortal  eye. 

But  now  I  see  it  I    In  the  sun 

A  free  flag  floats  from  yonder  dome, 
And  at  the  nation's  hearth  and  home 

The  justice  long  delayed  is  done. 

Not  as  we  hoped,  in  calm  of  prayer, 
The  message  of  deliverance  comes, 
But  heralded  by  roll  of  drums 

On  waves  of  battle-troubled  air !  — 


ASTRJEA   AT  THE   CAPITOL.  33 

'Midst  sounds  that  madden  and  appall, 

The  song  that  Bethlehem's  shepherds  knew  ! 
The  harp  of  David  melting  through 

The  demon-agonies  of  Saul ! 

Not  as  we  hoped  ;  —  but  what  are  we  ? 
Above  our  broken  dreams  and  plans 
God  lays,  with  wiser  hand  than  man's, 

The  corner-stones  of  liberty. 

I  cavil  not  with  Him :  the  voice 
That  freedom's  blessed  gospel  tells 
Is  sweet  to  me  as  silver  bells, 

Rejoicing !  —  yea,  I  will  rejoice  ! 

Dear  friends  still  toiling  in  the  sun,  — 
Ye  dearer  ones  who,  gone  before, 
Are  watching  from  the  eternal  shore 

The  slow  work  by  your  hands  begun,  — 


34  IN   WAR    TIME. 

Rejoice  with  me  !     The  chastening  rod 
Blossoms  with  love  ;  the  furnace  heat 
Grows  cool  beneath  His  blessed  feet 

Whose  form  is  as  the  Son  of  God ! 

Rejoice !    Our  Marah's  bitter  springs 
Are  sweetened  ;  on  our  ground  of  grief 
Rise  day  by  day  in  strong  relief 

The  prophecies  of  better  things. 

Rejoice  in  hope !    The  day  and  night 
Are  one  with  God,  and  one  with  them 
Who  see  by  faith  the  cloudy  hem 

Of  Judgment  fringed  with  Mercy's  light ! 


THE   BATTLE   AUTUMN  OF   1862. 

THE  flags  of  war  like  storm-birds  fly, 
The  charging  trumpets  blow ; 
Yet  rolls  no  thunder  in  the  sky, 
No  earthquake  strives  below. 

And,  calm  and  patient,  Nature  keeps 

Her  ancient  promise  well, 

«     ' :     :    7    11    7     J1    ""    l!l    ™r    n    nj  •  !*t 

Hnness  sweeps 


»urs 


flowers 


36  IN   WAR    TIME. 

What  mean  the  gladness  of  the  plain, 

This  joy  of  eve  and  morn, 
The  mirth  that  shakes  the  beard  of  grain 

And  yellow  locks  of  corn  ? 

Ah !  eyes  may  well  be  full  of  tears, 
And  hearts  with  hate  are  hot ; 

But  even-paced  come  round  the  years, 
And  Nature  changes  not. 

She  meets  with  smiles  our  bitter  grief, 
With  songs  our  groans  of  pain  ; 

She  mocks  with  tint  of  flower  and  leaf 
The  war-field's  crimson  stain. 

Still,  in  the  cannon's  pause,  we  hear 
Her  sweet  thanksgiving-psalm ; 

Too  near  to  God  for  doubt  or  fear, 
She  shares  th'  eternal  calm. 


THE  BATTLE  AUTUMN.  37 

She  knows  the  seed  lies  safe  below 

The  fires  that  blast  and  burn  ; 
For  all  the  tears  of  blood  we  sow 

She  waits  the  rich  return. 

She  sees  with  clearer  eye  than  ours 

The  good  of  suffering  born,  — 
The  hearts  that  blossom  like  her  flowers, 

And  ripen  like  her  corn. 

0,  give  to  us,  in  times  like  these, 

The  vision  of  her  eyes  ; 
And  make  her  fields  and  fruited  trees 

Our  golden  prophecies ! 

0,  give  to  us  her  finer  ear ! 

Above  this  stormy  din, 
We  too  would  hear  the  bells  of  cheer 

Ring  peace  and  freedom  in  ! 


MITHRIDATES  AT   CHIOS  * 

KNOW'ST  thou,  O  slave-cursed  land ! 
How,  when  the  Chian's  cup  of  guilt 
Was  full  to  overflow,  there  came 
God's  justice  in  the  sword  of  flame 
That,  red  with  slaughter  to  its  hilt, 
Blazed  in  the  Cappadocian  victor's  hand  ? 


*  It  is  recorded  that  the  Chians,  when  subjugated  by  Mithri- 
dates  of  Cappadocia,  were  delivered  up  to  their  own  slaves,  to 
be  carried  away  captive  to  Colohis.  Athenseus  considers  this 
a  just  punishment  for  their  wickedness  in  first  introducing 
the  slave-trade  into  Greece.  From  this  ancient  villany  of  the 
Chians  the  proverb  arose,  u  The  Chian  hath  bought  himself  a 
master." 


MITHRIDATES  AT   CHIOS.  39 

The  heavens  are  still  and  far ; 

But,  not  unheard  of  awful  Jove, 
The  sighing  of  the  island  slave 
Was  answered,  when  the  ^Egean  wave 

The  keels  of  Mithridates  clove, 
And  the  vines  shrivelled  in  the  breath  of  war. 

"  Robbers  of  Chios  !  hark," 
The  victor  cried,  "  to  Heaven's  decree  ! 
Pluck  your  last  cluster  from  the  vine, 
Drain  your  last  cup  of  Chian  wine  ; 
Slaves  of  your  slaves,  your  doom  shall  be, 
In  Colchian  mines  by  Phasis  rolling  dark." 

Then  rose  the  long  lament 
From  the  hoar  sea-god's  dusky  caves : 
The  priestess  rent  her  hair  and  cried, 
"  Woe !   woe  !      The  gods   are   sleepless- 
eyed  !  " 

And,  chained  and  scourged,  the  slaves  of  slaves, 
The  lords  of  Chios  into  exile  went. 


40  IN   WAR    TIME. 

"  The  gods  at  last  pay  well," 
So  Hellas  sang  her  taunting  song, 
"  The  fisher  in  his  net  is  caught, 
The  Chian  hath  his  master  bought "  ; 
And  isle  from  isle,  with  laughter  long, 
Took  up  and  sped  the  mocking  parable. 

Once  more  the  slow,  dumb  years 
Bring  their  avenging  cycle  round, 
And,  more  than  Hellas  taught  of  old, 
Our  wiser  lesson  shall  be  told, 
Of  slaves  uprising,  freedom-crowned, 
To  break,  not  wield,  the  scourge  wet  with  their 
blood  and  tears. 


THE   PROCLAMATION. 

SAINT  Patrick,  slave  to  Milcho  of  the  herds 
Of  Ballymena,  wakened  with  these  words : 

"  Arise,  and  flee 
Out  from  the  land  of  bondage,  and  be  free  !  " 

Glad  as  a  soul  in  pain,  who  hears  from  heaven 
The  angels  singing  of  his  sins  forgiven, 

And,  wondering,  sees 
His  prison  opening  to  their  golden  keys, 

He  rose,  a  man  who  laid  him  down  a  slave, 
Shook  from  his  locks  the  ashes  of  the  grave, 

And  outward  trod 
Into  the  glorious  liberty  of  God. 


42  IN   WAR    TIME. 

He  cast  the  symbols  of  his  shame  away  ; 
And,  passing  where  the  sleeping  Milcho  lay, 

Though  back  and  limb 

Smarted  with  wrong,  he  prayed,  "  God  pardon 
him ! " 

So  went  he  forth :  but  in  God's  time  he  came 
To  light  on  Uilline's  hills  a  holy  flame ; 

And,  dying,  gave 
The  land  a  saint  that  lost  him  as  a  slave. 

0  dark,  sad  millions,  patiently  and  dumb 
Waiting  for  God,  your  hour,  at  last,  has  come, 

And  freedom's  song 
Breaks  the  long  silence  of  your  night  of  wrong ! 

Arise  and  flee  !  shake  off  the  vile  restraint 
Of  ages  ;  but,  like  Ballymena's  saint, 

The  oppressor  spare, 
Heap  only  on  his  head  the  coals  of  prayer. 


THE  PROCLAMATION.  43 

Go  forth,  like  him !  like  him  return  again, 
To  bless  the  land  whereon  in  bitter  pain 

Ye  toiled  at  first, 

And  heal  with  freedom  what    your    slavery 
cursed. 


ANNIVERSARY  POEM. 

[Read  before  the  Alumni  of  the  Friends'  Yearly  Meeting 
School,  at  the  Annual  Meeting  at  Newport,  E.  L,  15th  6th  Mo., 
1863.] 

ONCE    more,    dear    friends,    you    meet 
beneath 

A  clouded  sky  : 

Not  yet  the  sword  has  found  its  sheath, 
And  on  the  sweet  spring  airs  the  breath 
Of  war  floats  by. 

Yet  trouble  springs  not  from  the  ground, 

Nor  pain  from  chance  ; 
The  Eternal  order  circles  round, 
And  wave  and  storm  find  mete  and  bound 

In  Providence. 


ANNIVERSARY  POEM.  45 

Full  long  our  feet  the  flowery  ways 

Of  peace  have  trod, 

Content  with  creed  and  garb  and  phrase  : 
A  harder  path  in  earlier  days 

Led  up  to  God. 

Too  cheaply  truths,  once  purchased  dear, 

Are  made  our  own  ; 
Too  long  the  world  has  smiled  to  hear 
Our  boast  of  full  corn  in  the  ear 

By  others  sown  ; 

To  see  us  stir  the  martyr  fires 

Of  long  ago, 

And  wrap  our  satisfied  desires 
In  the  singed  mantles  that  our  sires 

Have  dropped  below. 

But  now  the  cross  our  worthies  bore 
On  us  is  laid  ; 


46  IN   WAR    TIME. 

Profession's  quiet  sleep  is  o'er, 
And  in  the  scale  of  truth  once  more 
Our  faith  is  weighed. 

The  cry  of  innocent  blood  at  last 

Is  calling  down 

An  answer  in  the  whirlwind-blast, 
The  thunder  and  the  shadow  cast 

From  Heaven's  dark  frown. 

The  land  is  red  with  judgments.     Who 

Stands  guiltless  forth  ? 
Have  we  been  faithful  as  we  knew, 
To  God  and  to  our  brother  true, 

To  Heaven  and  Earth  ? 

How  faint,  through  din  of  merchandise 

And  count  of  gain, 
Have  seemed  to  us  the  captive's  cries  ! 
How  far  away  the  tears  and  sighs 

Of  souls  in  pain  ! 


ANNIVERSARY  POEM.  47 

This  day  the  fearful  reckoning  comes 

To  each  and  all ; 

We  hear  amidst  our  peaceful  homes 
The  summons  of  the  conscript  drums, 

The  bugle's  call. 

Our  path  is  plain  ;  the  war-net  draws 

Round 'us  in  vain, 

While,  faithful  to  the  Higher  Cause, 
We  keep  our  fealty  to  the  laws 

Through  patient  pain. 

The  levelled  gun,  the  battle  brand, 

We  may  not  take  ; 
But,  calmly  loyal,  we  can  stand 
And  suffer  with  our  suffering  land 

For  conscience'  sake. 

Why  ask  for  ecse  where  all  is  pain  ? 
Shall  we  alone 


48  IN  WAR  TIME. 

Be  left  to  add  our  gain  to  gain, 

When  over  Armageddon's  plain 

The  trump  is  blown  ? 

To  suffer  well  is  well  to  serve  ; 

Safe  in  our  Lord 

The  rigid  lines  of  law  shall  curve 
To  spare  us ;  from  our  heads  shall  swerve 

Its  smiting  sword. 

And  light  is  mingled  with  the  gloom, 

And  joy  with  grief ; 
Divinest  compensations  come, 
Through  thorns  of  judgment  mercies  bloom 

In  sweet  relief. 

Thanks  for  our  privilege  to  bless, 

By  word  and  deed, 
The  widow  in  her  keen  distress, 
The  childless  and  the  fatherless, 

The  hearts  that  bleed  ! 


ANNIVERSARY  POEM.  49 

For  fields  of  duty,  opening  wide, 

Where  all  our  powers 
Are  tasked  the  eager  steps  to  guide 
Of  millions  on  a  path  untried  : 

THE  SLAVE  is  OURS! 

Ours  by  traditions  dear  and  old, 

Which  make  the  race 
Our  wards  to  cherish  and  uphold, 
And  cast  their  freedom  in  the  mould 

Of  Christian  grace. 

And  we  may  tread  the  sick-bed  floors 

Where  strong  men  pine, 
And,  down  the  groaning  corridors, 
Pour  freely  from  our  liberal  stores 

The  oil  and  wine. 

Who  murmurs  that  in  these  dark  days 
His  lot  is  cast  ? 

3 


50  IN   WAR    TIME. 

God's  hand  within  the  shadow  lays 
The  stones  whereon  His  gates  of  praise 
Shall  rise  at  last. 

Turn  and  o'erturn,  0  outstretched  Hand ! 

Nor  stint,  nor  stay  ; 

The  years  have  never  dropped  their  sand 
On  mortal  issue  vast  and  grand 

As  ours  to-day. 

Already,  on  the  sable  ground 

Of  man's  despair 

Is  Freedom's  glorious  picture  found 
With  all  its  dusky  hands  unbound 

Upraised  in  prayer. 

0,  small  shall  seem  all  sacrifice 

And  pain  and  loss, 

When  God  shall  wipe  the  weeping  eyes, 
For  suffering  give  the  victor's  prize, 

The  crown  for  cross  ! 


AT   PORT   ROYAL. 

THE  tent-lights  glimmer  on  the  land, 
The  ship-lights  on  the  sea ; 
The  night-wind  smooths  with  drifting  sand 
Our  track  on  lone  Tybee. 

At  last  our  grating  keels  outslide, 
Our  good  boats  forward  swing  ; 

And  while  we  ride  the  land-locked  tide. 
Our  negroes  row  and  sing. 

For  dear  the  bondman  holds  his  gifts 

Of  music  and  of  song : 
The  gold  that  kindly  Nature  sifts 

Among  his  sands  of  wrong ; 


52  IN   WAR    TIMS. 

The  power  to  make  his  toiling  days 
And  poor  home-comforts  please  ; 

The  quaint  relief  of  mirth  that  plays 
With  sorrow's  minor  keys. 


Another  glow  than  sunset's  fire 
Has  filled  the  West  with  light, 

Where  field  and  garner,  barn  and  byre 
Are  blazing  through  the  night. 

The  land  is  wild  with  fear  and  hate, 
The  rout  runs  mad  and  fast ; 

From  hand  to  hand ,  from  gate  to  gate, 
The  flaming  brand  is  passed. 

The  lurid  glow  falls  strong  across 
Dark  faces  broad  with  smiles : 

Not  theirs  the  terror,  hate,  and  loss 
That  fire  yon  blazing  piles. 


AT  PORT  ROYAL.  53 

With  oar-strokes  timing  to  their  song, 

They  weave  in  simple  lays 
The  pathos  of  remembered  wrong, 

The  hope  of  better  days,  — 

The  triumph-note  that  Miriam  sung, 

The  joy  of  uncaged  birds  : 
Softening  with  Afric's  mellow  tongue 

Their  broken  Saxon  words. 


SONG  OF  THE  NEGRO  BOATMEN. 

0,  praise  an'  tanks  !     De  Lord  he  come 

To  set  de  people  free  ; 
An'  massa  tink  it  day  ob  doom, 

An'  we  ob  jubilee. 
De  Lord  dat  heap  de  Red  Sea  waves 

He  jus'  as  'trong  as  den  ; 


54  IN   WAR    TIME. 

He  say  de  word  :  we  las'  night  slaves  ; 
To-day,  de  Lord's  freemen. 

De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 
K 

We  '11  hab  de  rice  an'  corn ; 

0  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn ! 


Ole  massa  on  he  trabbels  gone  ; 

He  leaf  de  land  behind  : 
De  Lord's  breff  blow  him  furder  on, 

Like  corn-shuck  in  de  wind. 
We  own  de  hoe,  we  own  de  plough, 

We  own  de  hands  dat  hold ; 
We  sell  de  pig,  we  sell  de  cow, 
But  nebber  chile  be  sold. 

De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

We  '11  hab  de  rice  an'  corn  : 
0  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn  ! 


AT  PORT  ROYAL.  55 

We  pray  de  Lord  :  he  gib  us  signs 

Dat  some  day  we  be  free  ; 
De  Norf-wind  tell  it  to  de  pines, 

De  wild-duck  to  de  sea  ; 
We  tink  it  when  de  church-bell  ring, 

We  dream  it  in  de  dream  ; 
De  rice-bird  mean  it  when  he  sing, 
De  eagle  when  he  scream. 

De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

We  '11  hab  de  rice  an'  corn  : 
0  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn  ! 

We  know  de  promise  nebber  fail, 

An'  nebber  he  de  word  ; 
So,  like  de  'postles  in  de  jail, 

We  waited  for  de  Lord  : 
An'  now  he  open  ebery  door. 

An'  trow  away  de  key  ; 


56  IN   WAR   TIME. 

He  tink  we  lub  him  so  before, 
We  lub  him  better  free. 

De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

He  '11  gib  de  rice  an'  corn  : 
0  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn  ! 


So  sing  our  dusky  gondoliers  ; 

And  with  a  secret  pain, 
And  smiles  that  seem  akin  to  tears, 

We  hear  the  wild  refrain. 

We  dare  not  share  the  negro's  trust, 

Nor  yet  his  hope  deny  ; 
We  only  know  that  God  is  just, 

And  every  wrong  shall  die. 

Rude  seems  the  song  ;  each  swarthy  face, 
Flame-lighted,  ruder  still : 


AT  PORT  ROYAL.  57 

We  start  to  think  that  hapless  race 
Must  shape  our  good  or  ill ; 

That  laws  of  changeless  justice  bind 

Oppressor  with  oppressed  ; 
And,  close  as  sin  and  suffering  joined, 

We  march  to  Fate  abreast. 

Sing  on,  poor  hearts  !  your  chant  shall  be 
Our  sign  of  blight  or  bloom,  — 

The  Yala-song  of  Liberty, 

^ 
Or  death-rune  of  our  doom  ! 


BARBARA   FRIETCHIE. 


u 


P  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn, 
Clear  in  the  cool  September  morn, 


The  clustered  spires  of  Frederick  stand 
Green-walled  by  the  hills  of  Maryland. 

Round  about  them  orchards  sweep, 
Apple-  and  peach-tree  fruited  deep, 

Fair  as  a  garden  of  the  Lord 

To  the  eyes  of  the  famished  rebel  horde, 


BARBARA   FRIETCHIE.  59 

On  that  pleasant  morn  of  the  early  fall 
When  Lee  marched  over  the  mountain  wall, — 

Over  the  mountains  winding  down, 
Horse  and  foot,  into  Frederick  town. 

Forty  flags  with  their  silver  stars, 
Forty  flags  with  their  crimson  bars, 

Flapped  in  the  morning  wind  :  the  sun 
Of  noon  looked  down,  and  saw  not  one. 

Up  rose  old  Barbara  Frietchie  then, 
Bowed  with  her  fourscore  years  and  ten  ; 

Bravest  of  all  in  Frederick  town, 

She  took  up  the  flag  the  men  hauled  down ; 

In  her  attic-window  the  staff  she  set, 
To  show  that  one  heart  was  loyal  yet. 


60  IN   WAR   TIME. 

Up  the  street  came  the  rebel  tread, 
Stonewall  Jackson  riding  ahead. 

Under  his  slouched  hat  left  and  right 
He  glanced  :  the  old  flag  met  his  sight. 

"  Halt !  "  —  the  dust-brown  ranks  stood  fast. 
"  Fire  !  "  —  out  blazed  the  rifle-blast. 

It  shivered  the  window,  pane  and  sash ; 
It  rent  the  banner  with  seam  and  gash. 

Quick,  as  it  fell,  from  the  broken  staff 
Dame  Barbara  snatched  the  silken  scarf ; 

She  leaned  far  out  on  the  window-sill, 
And  shook  it  forth  with  a  royal  will. 

"  Shoot,  if  you  must,  this  old  gray  head, 
But  spare  your  country's  flag,"  she  said. 


BARBARA   FRIETCHIE.  61 

A  shade  of  sadness,  a  blush  of  shame, 
Over  the  face  of  the  leader  came  ; 

The  nobler  nature  within  him  stirred 
To  life  at  that  woman's  deed  and  word  : 

"  Who  touches  a  hair  of  yon  gray  head 
Dies  like  a  dog  !     March  on  !  "  he  said. 

All  day  long  through  Frederick  street 
Sounded  the  tread  of  marching  feet : 

All  day  long  that  free  flag  tost 
Over  the  heads  of  the  rebel  host. 

Ever  its  torn  folds  rose  and  fell 

On  the  loyal  winds  that  loved  it  well ; 

And  through  the  hill-gaps  sunset  light 
Shone  over  it  with  a  warm  good-night. 


62  IN   WAR    TIME. 

Barbara  Frietchie's  work  is  o'er, 

And  the  Rebel  rides  on  his  raids  no  more. 

Honor  to  her  !  and  let  a  tear 

Fall,  for  her  sake,  on  StonewalPs  bier. 

Over  Barbara  Frietchie's  grave 
Flag  of  Freedom  and  Union,  wave ! 

Peace  and  order  and  beauty  draw 
Round  thy  symbol  of  light  and  law  ; 

And  ever  the  stars  above  look  down 
On  thy  stars  below  in  Frederick  town ! 


HOME    BALLADS 


COBBLER   KEEZAR'S   VISION.* 


THE  beaver  cut  his  timber 
With  patient  teeth  that  day, 
The  minks  were  fish-wards,  and  the  crows 
Surveyors  of  highway,  —    . 

When  Keezar  sat  on  the  hillside 

Upon  his  cobbler's  form, 
With  a  pan  of  coals  on  either  hand 

To  keep  his  waxed-ends  warm. 

*  This  ballad  was  written  on  the  occasion  of  a  Horticultural 
Festival.  Cobbler  Keezar  was  a  noted  character  among  the  first 
settlers  in  the  valley  of  the  Merrimack. 

E 


66  HOME  BALLADS. 

And  there,  in  the  golden  weather, 

He  stitched  and  hammered  and  sung  ; 

In  the  brook  he  moistened  his  leather, 
In  the  pewter  mug  his  tongue. 

Well  knew  the  tough  old  Teuton 
Who  brewed  the  stoutest  ale, 

And  he  paid  the  good-wife's  reckoning 
In  the  coin  of  song  and  tale. 

The  songs  they  still  are  singing 
Who  dress  the  hills  of  vine, 

The  tales  that  haunt  the  Brocken 
And  whisper  down  the  Rhine. 

Woodsy  and  wild  and  lonesome, 
The  swift  stream  wound  away, 

Through  birches  and  scarlet  maples 
Flashing  in  foam  and  spray,  — 


COBBLER   KEEZAR'S    VISION.  67 

Down  on  the  sharp-horned  ledges 

Plunging  in  steep  cascade, 
Tossing  its  white-maned  waters 

Against  the  hemlock's  shade. 

Woodsy  and  wild  and  lonesome, 

East  and  west  and  north  and  south ; 

Only  the  village  of  fishers 
Down  at  the  river's  mouth ; 

Only  here  and  there  a  clearing, 
With  its  farm-house  rude  and  new, 

And  tree-stumps,  swart  as  Indians, 
Where  the  scanty  harvest  grew. 

No  shout  of  home-bound  reapers, 

No  vintage-song  he  heard, 
And  on  the  green  no  dancing  feet 

The  merry  violin  stirred. 


68  HOME  BALLADS. 

"  Why  should  folk  be  glum,"  said  Keezar, 
"  When  Nature  herself  is  glad, 

And  the  painted  woods  are  laughing 
At  the  faces  so  sour  and  sad  ?  " 

Small  heed  had  the  careless  cobbler 
What  sorrow  of  heart  was  theirs 

Who  travailed  in  pain  with  the  births  of  God, 
And  planted  a  state  with  prayers,  — 

Hunting  of  witches  and  warlocks, 
Smiting  the  heathen  horde,  — 

One  hand  on  the  mason's  trowel, 
And  one  on  the  soldier's  sword  ! 

But  give  him  his  ale  and  cider, 

Give  him  his  pipe  and  song, 
Little  he  cared  for  church  or  state, 

Or  the  balance  of  right  and  wrong. 


COBBLER   KEEZAR'S    VISION.          69 

"  'T  is  work,  work,  work,"  he  muttered,  — 
"  And  for  rest  a  snuffle  of  psalms  !  " 

He  smote  on  his  leathern  apron 
With  his  brown  and  waxen  palms. 

"  0  for  the  purple  harvests 

Of  the  days  when  I  was  young  ! 

For  the  merry  grape-stained  maidens, 
And  the  pleasant  songs  they  sung  ! 

"  0  for  the  breath  of  vineyards, 

Of  apples  and  nuts  and  wine  ! 
For  an  oar  to  row  and  a  breeze  to  blow 

"Down  the  grand  old  river  Rhine  ! " 

A  tear  in  his  blue  eye  glistened 
And  dropped  on  his  beard  so  gray. 

"  Old,  old  am  I,"  said  Keezar,      • 
"  And  the  Rhine  flows  far  away  !  " 


70  HOME  BALLADS. 

But  a  cunning  man  was  the  cobbler  ; 

He  could  call  the  birds  from  the  trees, 
Charm  the  black  snake  out  of  the  ledges, 

And  bring  back  the  swarming  bees. 

All  the  virtues  of  herbs  and  metals, 
All  the  lore  of  the  woods,  he  knew, 

And  the  arts  of  the  Old  World  mingled 
With  the  marvels  of  the  New. 

Well  he  knew  the  tricks  of  magic, 
And  the  lapstone  on  his  knee 

Had  the  gift  of  the  Mormon's  goggles 
Or  the  stone  of  Doctor  Dee. 

For  the  mighty  master  Agrippa 
Wrought  it  with  spell  and  rhyme 

From  a  -fragment  of  mystic  moonstone 
In  the  tower  of  Nettesheim. 


COBBLER   KEEZAR'S   VISION.          71 

To  a  cobbler  Minnesinger 

The  marvellous  stone  gave  he,  — 

And  he  gave  it,  in  turn,  to  Keezar, 
Who  brought  it  over  the  sea. 

He  held  up  that  mystic  lapstone, 

He  held  it  up  like  a  lens, 
And  he  counted  the  long  years  coming 

By  twenties  and  by  tens. 

"  One  hundred  years,"  quoth  Keezar, 

"  And  fifty  have  I  told  : 
Now  open  the  new  before  me, 

And  shut  me  out  the  old  !  " 

Like  a  cloud  of  mist,  the  blackness 

Rolled  from  the  magic  stone, 
And  a  marvellous  picture  mingled 

The  unknown  and  the  known. 


72  HOME  BALLADS. 

Still  ran  the  stream  to  the  river, 

And  river  and  ocean  joined  ; 
And  there  were  the  bluffs  and  the  blue  sea-line, 

And  cold  north  hills  behind. 

But  the  mighty  forest  was  broken 

By  many  a  steeple d  town, 
By  many  a  white-walled  farm-house, 

And  many  a  garner  brown.' 

Turning  a  score  of  mill-wheels, 

The  stream  no  more  ran  free  ; 
White  sails  on  the  winding  river, 

White  sails  on  the  far-off  sea. 

Below  in  the  noisy  village 

The  flags  were  floating  gay, 
And  shone  on  a  thousand  faces 

The  light  of  a  holiday. 


COBBLER   KEEZAR'S    VISION.  73 

Swiftly  the  rival  ploughmen 

Turned  the  brown  earth  from  their  shares  ; 
Here  were  the  farmer's  treasures, 

There  were  the  craftsman's  wares. 

Golden  the  good-wife's  butter, 

Ruby  her  currant-wine ; 
Grand  were  the  strutting  turkeys, 

Fat  were  the  beeves  and  swine. 

Yellow  and  red  were  the  apples, 
And  the  ripe  pears  russet-brown, 

And  the  peaches  had  stolen  blushes 
From  the  girls  who  shook  them  down. 

And  with  blooms  of  hill  and  wild-wood, 

That  shame  the  toil  of  art, 
Mingled  the  gorgeous  blossoms 

Of  the  garden's  tropic  heart. 


74  HOME  BALLADS. 

"  What  is  it  I  see  ?  "  said  Keezar  : 
"  Am  I  here,  or  am  I  there  ? 

Is  it  a  fete  at  Bingen  ? 

Do  I  look  on  Frankfort  fair  ? 

"  But  where  are  the  clowns  and  puppets, 
And  imps  with  horns  and  tail  ? 

And  where  are  the  Rhenish  flagons  ? 
And  where  is  the  foaming  ale  ? 

"  Strange  things,  I  know,  will  happen,  — 
Strange  things  the  Lord  permits  ; 

But  that  droughty  folk  should  be  jolly 
Puzzles  my  poor  old  wits. 

"  Here  are  smiling  manly  faces, 
And  the  maiden's  step  is  gay  ; 

Nor  sad  by  thinking,  nor  mad  by  drinking 
Nor  mopes,  nor  fools,  are  they. 


COBBLER   KEEZAR'S    VISION.  75 

"  Here  's  pleasure  without  regretting, 

And  good  without  abuse, 
The  holiday  and  the  bridal 

Of  beauty  and  of  use. 

"  Here  's  a  priest  and  there  is  a  quaker, — 

Do  the  cat  and  the  dog  agree  ? 
Have  they  burned  the  stocks  for  oven-wood  ? 

Have  they  cut  down  the  gallows-tree  ? 

"  Would  the  old  folk  know  their  children  ? 

Would  they  own  the  graceless  town, 
With  never  a  ranter  to  worry 

And  never  a  witch  to  drown  ?  " 

Loud  laughed  the  cobbler  Keezar, 

Laughed  like  a  school-boy  gay  ; 
Tossing  his  arms  above  him, 

The  lapstone  rolled  away. 


76  HOME  BALLADS. 

It  rolled  down  the  rugged  hillside, 
It  spun  like  a  wheel  bewitched, 

It  plunged  through  the  leaning  willows, 
And  into  the  river  pitched. 

There,  in  the  deep,  dark  water, 

The  magic  stone  lies  still, 
Under  the  leaning  willows 

In  the  shadow  of  the  hill. 

But  oft  the  idle  fisher 

Sits  on  the  shadowy  bank, 
And  his  dreams  make  marvellous  pictures 

Where  the  wizard's  lapstone  sank. 

And  still,  in  the  summer  twilights, 
When  the  river  seems  to  run 

Out  from  the  inner  glory, 
Warm  with  the  melted  sun, 


COBBLER   KEEZARS    VISION.          77 

The  weary  mill-girl  lingers 

Beside  the  charmM  stream, 
And  the  sky  and  the  golden  water 

Shape  and  color  her  dream. 

Fair  wave  the  sunset  gardens, 

The  rosy  signals  fly ; 
Her  homestead  beckons  from  the  cloud, 

And  love  goes  sailing  by  ! 


AMY    WENTWORTH. 

To  W.  B. 

AS  they  who  watch  by  sick-beds  find  relief 
Unwittingly   from   the    great   stress   of 

grief 

And  anxious  care  in  fantasies  outwrought 
From  the  hearth's  embers  flickering  low,  or 

caught 

From  whispering  wind,  or  tread  of  passing  feet, 
Or  vagrant  memory  calling  up  some  sweet 
Snatch  of  old  song  or  romance,  whence  or  why 
They  scarcely  know  or  ask,  —  so,  thou  and  I, 
Nursed  in  the  faith  that  Truth  alone  is  strong 
In  the  endurance  which  outwearies  Wrong, 


AMY   WENTWORTH.  79 

With  meek  persistence  baffling  brutal  force, 
And  trusting  God  against  the  universe,  — 
We,  doomed  to  watch  a  strife  we  may  not  share 
With  other  weapons  than  the  patriot's  prayer, 
Yet  owning,  with  full  hearts  and  moistened  eyes, 
The  awful  beauty  of  self-sacrifice, 
And  wrung  by  keenest  sympathy  for  all 
Who  give  their  loved  ones  for  the  living  wall 
'Twixt  law  and  treason,  — in  this  evil  day 
May  haply  find,  through  automatic  play 
Of  pen  and  pencil,  solace  to  our  pain, 
And  hearten  others  with  the  strength  we  gain. 
I  know  it  has  been  said  our  times  require 
No  play  of  art,  nor  dalliance  with  the  lyre, 
No  weak  essay  with  Fancy's  chloroform 
To  calm  the  hot,  mad  pulses  of  the  storm, 
But  the  stern  war-blast  rather,  such  as  sets 
The  battle's  teeth  of  serried  bayonets, 
And  pictures  grim  as  Yernet's.    Yet  with  these 
Some  softer  tints  may  blend,  and  milder  keys 


80  HOME  BALLADS. 

Relieve  the  storm-stunned  ear.     Let  us  keep 

sweet, 

If  so  we  may,  our  hearts,  even  while  we  eat 
The  bitter  harvest  of  our  own  device 
And  half  a  century's  moral  cowardice. 
As  Niirnberg  sang  while  Wittenberg  defied, 
And  Kranach  painted  by  his  Luther's  side, 
And  through  the  war-march  of  the  Puritan 
The  silver  stream  of  Marvell's  music  ran, 
So  let  the  household  melodies  be  sung, 
The  pleasant  pictures  on  the  wall  be  hung,  — 
So  let  us  hold  against  the  hosts  of  night 
And  slavery  all  our  vantage-ground  of  light. 
Let  Treason  boast  its  savagery,  and  shake 
From  its  flag-folds  its  symbol  rattlesnake, 
Nurse  its  fine  arts,  lay  human  skins  in  tan, 
And  carve  its  pipe-bowls  from  the  bones  of  man, 
And  make  the  tale  of  Fijian  banquets  dull 
By  drinking  whiskey  from  a  loyal  skull,  — 
But  let  us  guard,  till  this  sad  war  shall  cease, 


AMY  WENTWORTH.  81 

(God  grant  it  soon !)  the  graceful  arts  of  peace : 
No  foes  are  conquered  who  the  victors  teach 
Their  vandal  manners  and  barbaric  speech. 

And  while,  with  hearts  of  thankfulness,  we  bear 
Of  the  great  common  burden  our  full  share, 
Let  none  upbraid  us  that  the  waves  entice 
Thy  sea-dipped  pencil,  or  some  quaint  device, 
Rhythmic  and  sweet,  beguiles  my  pen  away 
From  the  sharp  strifes  and  sorrows  of  to-day. 
Thus,  while  the  east-wind  keen  from  Labrador 
Sings  in  the  leafless  elms,  and  from  the  shore 
Of  the  great  sea  comes  the  monotonous  roar 
Of  the  long-breaking  surf,  and  all  the  sky 
Is  gray  with  cloud,  home-bound  and  dull,  I  try 
To  time  a  simple  legend  to  the  sounds 
Of  winds  in  the  woods,  and  waves  on  pebbled 

bounds,  — 

A  song  for  oars  to  chime  with,  such  as  might 
Be  sung  by  tired  sea-painters,  who  at  night 

4*  P 


82  HOME  BALLADS. 

Look  from  their  hemlock  camps,  by  quiet  cove 
Or  beach,  moon-lighted,  on  the  waves  they  love. 
(So  hast  thou  looked,  when  level  sunset  lay 
On  the  calm  bosom  of  some  Eastern  bay, 
And  all  the  spray-moist  rocks  and  waves  that 

rolled 

Up  the  white  sand-slopes  flashed  with  ruddy  gold.) 
Something  it  has  —  a  flavor  of  the  sea, 
And  the  sea's  freedom  —  which  reminds  of  thee. 
Its  faded  picture,  dimly  smiling  down 
From  the  blurred  fresco  of  the  ancient  town, 
I  have  not  touched  with  warmer  tints  in  vain, 
If,  in  this  dark,  sad  year,  it  steals  one  thought 

from  pain. 


HER  fingers  shame  the  ivory  keys 
They  dance  so  light  along  ; 

The  bloom  upon  her  parted  lips 
Is  sweeter  than  the  song. 


AMY  WENTWORTH.  83 

0  perfumed  suitor,  spare  thy  smiles  ! 

Her  thoughts  are  not  of  thee  ; 
She  better  loves  the  salted  wind, 

The  voices  of  the  sea. 


Her  heart  is  like  an  outbound  ship 

That  at  its  anchor  swings  ; 
The  murmur  of  the  stranded  shell 

Is  in  the  song  she  sings. 

She  sings,  and,  smiling,  hears  her  praise, 
But  dreams  the  while  of  one 

Who  watches  from  his  sea-blown  deck 
The  icebergs  in  the  sun. 

She  questions  all  the  winds  that  blow, 

And  every  fog-wreath  dim, 
And  bids  the  sea  birds  flying  north 

Bear  messages  to  him. 


84  HOME  BALLADS. 

She  speeds  them  with  the  thanks  of  men 

He  perilled  life  to  save, 
And  grateful  prayers  like  holy  oil 

To  smooth  for  him  the  wave. 

Brown  Yiking  of  the  fishing-smack  ! 

Fair  toast  of  all  the  town  !  — 
The  skipper's  jerkin  ill  beseems 

The  lady's  silken  gown  ! 

But  ne'er  shall  Amy  Wentworth  wear 
For  him  the  blush  of  shame 

Who  dares  to  set  his  manly  gifts 
Against  her  ancient  name. 

The  stream  is  brightest  at  its  spring, 
And  blood  is  not  like  wine  ; 

Nor  honored  less  than  he  who  heirs 
Is  he  who  founds  a  line. 


AMY   WENTWORTH.  85 

Full  lightly  shall  the  prize  be  won, 

If  love  be  Fortune's  spur  ; 
And  never  maiden  stoops  to  him 

Who  lifts  himself  to  her. 

Her  home  is  brave  in  Jaffrey  Street, 

With  stately  stairways  worn 
By  feet  of  old  Colonial  knights 

And  ladies  gentle-born. 

Still  green  about  its  ample  porch 

The  English  ivy  twines, 
Trained  back  to  show  in  English  oak 

The  herald's  carven  signs. 

And  on  her,  from  the  wainscot  old, 

Ancestral  faces  frown,  — 
And  this  has  worn  the  soldier's  sword, 

And  that  the  judge's  gown. 


86  HOME  BALLADS. 

But,  strong  of  will  and  proud  as  they, 
She  walks  the  gallery  floor 

As  if  she  trod  her  sailor's  deck 
By  stormy  Labrador ! 

The  sweetbrier  blooms  on  Kittery-side, 
And  green  are  Elliot's  bowers ; 

Her  garden  is  the  pebbled  beach, 
The  mosses  are  her  flowers. 

She  looks  across  the  harbor-bar 
To  see  the  white  gulls  fly ; 

His  greeting  from  the  Northern  sea 
Is  in  their  clanging  cry. 

She  hums  a  song,  and  dreams  that  he, 

As  in  its  romance  old, 
Shall  homeward  ride  with  silken  sails 

And  masts  of  beaten  gold  ! 


AMY   WENTWORTH. 

0  rank  is  good,  and  gold  is  fair, 
And  high  and  low  mate  ill ; 

But  love  has  never  known  a  law 
Beyond  its  own  sweet  will ! 


87 


THE    COUNTESS. 

To  E.  W. 

I    KNOW  not,  Time  and  Space  so  intervene, 
Whether,  still  waiting  with  a  trust  serene, 
Thou  bearest  up  thy  fourscore  years  and  ten, 
Or,  called  at  last,  art  now  Heaven's  citizen  ; 
But,  here  or  there,  a  pleasant  thought  of  thee, 
Like  an  old  friend,  all  day  has  been  with  me. 
The  shy,  still  boy,  for  whom  thy  kindly  hand 
Smoothed  his  hard  pathway  to  the  wonder-land 
Of  thought  and  fancy,  in  gray  manhood  yet 
Keeps  green  tl... memory  of  his  early  debt. 
To-day,  when  truth  and  falsehood  speak  their 

words 
Through  hot-lipped  cannon  and  the  teeth  of 

swords, 


THE   COUNTESS.  89 

Listening  with  quickened  heart  and  ear  intent 
To  each  sharp  clause  of  that  stern  argument, 
I  still  can  hear  at  times  a  softer  note 
Of  the  old  pastoral  music  round  me  float. 
While  through  the  hot  gleam  of  our  civil  strife 
Looms  the  green  mirage  of  a  simpler  life. 
As,  at  his  alien  post,  the  sentinel 
Drops  the  old  bucket  in  the  homestead  well, 
And  hears  old  voices  in  the  winds  that  toss 
Above  his  head  the  live-oak's  beard  of  moss, 
So,  in  our  trial-time,  and  under  skies 
Shadowed  by  swords  like  Islam's  paradise, 
I  wait  and  watch,  and  let  my  fancy  stray 
To  milder  scenes  and  youth's  Arcadian  day  ; 
And  howsoe'er  the  pencil  dipped  in  dreams 
Shades  the  brown  woods  or  tints  the  sunset 

streams, 

The  country  doctor  in  the  foreground  seems, 
Whose  ancient  sulky  down  the  village  lanes 
Dragged,  like  a  war-car,  captive  ills  and  pains. 


90  HOME  BALLADS. 

I  could  not  paint  the  scenery  of  my  song, 
Mindless  of  one  who  looked  thereon  so  long  ; 
Who,  night  and  day,  on  duty's  lonely  round, 
Made  friends  o'  the  woods  and  rocks,  and  knew 

the  sound 

Of  each  small  brook,  and  what  the  hillside  trees 
Said  to  the  winds  that  touched  their  leafy  keys  ; 
Who  saw  so  keenly  and  so  well  could  paint 
The  village-folk,  with  all  their  humors  quaint,  — 
The  parson  ambling  on  his  wall-eyed  roan, 
Grave  and  erect,  with  white  hair  backward 

blown ; 

The  tough  old  boatman,  half  amphibious  grown ; 
The  muttering  witch-wife  of  the  gossip's  tale, 
And  the  loud  straggler  levying  his  black  mail,  — 
Old  customs,  habits,  superstitions,  fears, 
All  that  lies  buried  under  fifty  years. 
To  thee,  as  is  most  fit,  I  bring  my  lay, 
And,  grateful,  own  the  debt  I  cannot  pay. 


THE   COUNTESS.  91 

OVER  the  wooded  northern  ridge, 

Between  its  houses  brown, 
To  the  dark  tunnel  of  the  bridge 

The  street  comes  straggling  down. 

You  catch  a  glimpse  through  birch  and  pine 

Of  gable,  roof,  and  porch, 
The  tavern  with  its  swinging  sign, 

The  sharp  horn  of  the  church. 

The  river's  steel-blue  crescent  curves 

To  meet,  in  ebb  and  flow, 
The  single  broken  wharf  that  serves 

For  sloop  and  gundelow. 

With  salt  sea-scents  along  its  shores 

The  heavy  hay-boats  crawl, 
The  long  antennae  of  their  oars 

In  lazy  rise  and  fall. 


92  HOME  BALLADS. 

Along  the  gray  abutment's  wall 

The  idle  shad-net  dries  ; 
The  toll-man  in  his  cobbler's  stall 

Sits  smoking  with  closed  eyes. 

You  hear  the  pier's  low  undertone 
Of  waves  that  chafe  and  gnaw  ; 

You  start,  —  a  skipper's  horn  is  blown 
To  raise  the  creaking  draw. 

At  times  a  blacksmith's  anvil  sounds 
With  slow  and  sluggard  beat, 

Or  stage-coach  on  its  dusty  rounds 
Wakes  up  the  staring  street. 


A  place  for  idle  eyes  and  ears, 
A  cobwebbed  nook  of  dreams  ; 

Left  by  the  stream  whose  waves  are  years 
The  stranded  village  seems. 


THE   COUNTESS.  93 

And  there,  like  other  moss  and  rust, 

The  native  dweller  clings, 
And  keeps,  in  uninquiring  trust, 

The  old,  dull  round  of  things. 

The  fisher  drops  his  patient  lines, 

The  farmer  sows  his  grain, 
Content  to  hear  the  murmuring  pines 

Instead  of  railroad-train. 

Go  where,  along  the  tangled  steep 

That  slopes  against  the  west, 
The  hamlet's  buried  idlers  sleep 

In  still  profounder  rest. 

Throw  back  the  locust's  flowery  plume, 

The  birch's  pale-green  scarf, 
And  break  the  web  of  brier  and  bloom 

From  name  and  epitaph. 


94  HOME  BALLADS. 

A  simple  muster-roll  of  death, 
Of  pomp  and  romance  shorn, 

The  dry,  old  names  that  common  breath 
Has  cheapened  and  outworn. 

Yet  pause  by  one  low  mound,  and  part 
The  wild  vines  o'er  it  laced, 

And  read  the  words  by  rustic  art 
Upon  its  headstone  traced. 

Haply  yon  white-haired  villager 

Of  fourscore  years  can  say 
What  means  the  noble  name  of  her 

Who  sleeps  with  common  clay. 

An  exile  from  the  Gascon  land 
Found  refuge  here  and  rest, 

And  loved,  of  all  the  village  band, 
Its  fairest  and  its  best. 


THE   COUNTESS.  95 

He  knelt  with  her  on  Sabbath  morn, 
He  worshipped  through  her  eyes, 

And  on  the  pride  that  doubts  and  scorns 
Stole  in  her  faith's  surprise. 

Her  simple  daily  life  he  saw 

By  homeliest  duties  tried, 
In  all  things  by  an  untaught  law 

Of  fitness  justified. 

For  her  his  rank  aside  he  laid  ; 

He  took  the  hue  and  tone 
Of  lowly  life  and  toil,  and  made 

Her  simple  ways  his  own. 

Yet  still,  in  gay  and  careless  ease, 

To  harvest-field  or  dance 
He  brought  the  gentle  courtesies, 

The  nameless  grace  of  France. 


96  HOME  BALLADS. 

And  she  who  taught  him  love  not  less 

From  him  she  loved  in  turn 
Caught  in  her  sweet  unconsciousness 

What  love  is  quick  to  learn. 

Each  grew  to  each  in  pleased  accord, 

Nor  knew  the  gazing  town 
If  she  looked  upward  to  her  lord 

Or  he  to  her  looked  down. 

How  sweet,  when  summer's  day  was  o'er, 

His  violin's  mirth  and  wail, 
The  walk  on  pleasant  Newbury's  shore, 

The  river's  moonlit  sail ! 


Ah  !  life  is  brief,  though  love  be  long ; 

The  altar  and  the  bier, 
The  burial  hymn  and  bridal  song, 

Were  both  in  one  short  year  ! 


THE    COUNTESS.  97 

Her  rest  is  quiet  on  the  hill, 

Beneath  the  locust's  bloom  ; 
Far  off  her  lover  sleeps  as  still 

Within  his  scutcheoned  tomb. 

The  Gascon  lord,  the  village  maid, 
In  death  still  clasp  their  hands  ; 

The  love  that  levels  rank  and  grade 
Unites  their  severed  lancjs. 

What  matter  whose  the  hillside  grave, 

Or  whose  the  blazoned  stone  ? 
Forever  to  her  western  wave 

Shall  whisper  blue  Garonne  ! 

0  Love  !  —  so  hallowing  every  soil 
That  gives  thy  sweet  flower  room, 

Wherever,  nursed  by  ease  or  toil, 
The  human  heart  takes  bloom  !  — 


98  HOME  BALLADS. 

Plant  of  lost  Eden,  from  the  sod 

Of  sinful  earth  unriven, 
White  blossom  of  the  trees  of  God 

Dropped  down  to  us  from  heaven !  — 

This  tangled  waste  of  mound  and  stone 

Is  holy  for  thy  sake  ; 
A  sweetness  which  is  all  thy  own 

Breathes  out  from  fern  and  brake. 

And  while  ancestral  pride  shall  twine 
The  Gascon's  tomb  with  flowers, 

Fall  sweetly  here,  0  song  of  mine, 
With  summer's  bloom  and  showers  ! 

And  let  the  lines  that  severed  seem 

Unite  again  in  thee, 
As  western  wave  and  Gallic  stream 

Are  mingled  in  one  sea  ! 


OCCASIONAL    POEMS 


NAPLES.  — 1860. 

INSCRIBED    TO    ROBERT    C.    WATERSTON,    OP    BOSTON. 

I    give  thee  joy !  —  I  know  to  thee 
The  dearest  spot  on  earth  must  be 
Where  sleeps  thy  loved  one  by  the  summer  sea ; 

Where,  near  her  sweetest  poet's  tomb, 
The  land  of  Yirgil  gave  thee  room 
To  lay  thy  flower  with  her  perpetual  bloom. 


I  know  that  when  the  sky  shut  down 
Behind  thee  on  the  gleaming  town, 
On  Baise's  baths  and  Posilippo's  crown ; 


102  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

And,  through  thy  tears,  the  mocking  day 
Burned  Ischia's  mountain  lines  away, 
And  Capri  melted  in  its  sunny  bay,  — 

Through  thy  great  farewell  sorrow  shot 
The  sharp  pang  of  a  bitter  thought 
That  slaves  must  tread  around  that  holy  spot. 

Thou  knewest  not  the  land  was  blest 
In  giving  thy  beloved  rest, 
Holding  the  fond  hope  closer  to  her  breast 

That  every  sweet  and  saintly  grave 
Was  freedom's  prophecy,  and  gave 
The  pledge  of  Heaven  to  sanctify  and  save. 

That  pledge  is  answered.     To  thy  ear 
The  unchained  city  sends  its  cheer, 
And,  tuned  to  joy,  the  muffled  bells  of  fear 


NAPLES.  103 

Ring  Victor  in.     The  land  sits  free 
And  happy  by  the  summer  sea, 
And  Bourbon  Naples  now  is  Italy ! 

She  smiles  above  her  broken  chain 
The  languid  smile  that  follows  pain, 
Stretching  her  cramped  limbs  to  the  sun  again. 

0,  joy  for  all,  who  hear  her  call 

From  Camaldoli's  convent  wall 

And  Elmo's  towers  to  freedom's  carnival ! 

A  new  life  breathes  among  her  vines 

And  olives,  like  the  breath  of  pines 

Blown  downward  from  the  breezy  Apennines. 

Lean,  0  my  friend,  to  meet  that  breath, 
Rejoice  as  one  who  witnesseth 
Beauty  from  ashes  rise,  and  life  from  death ! 


104 


OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 


Thy  sorrow  shall  no  more  be  pain, 
Its  tears  shall  fall  in  sunlit  rain, 
Writing  the  grave  with  flowers :  "  Arisen  again ! " 


THE     SUMMONS. 

MY  ear  is  full  of  summer  sounds, 
Of  summer  sights  my  languid  eye ; 
Beyond  the  dusty  village  bounds 
I  loiter  in  my  daily  rounds, 

And  in  the  noon-time  shadows  lie. 

I  hear  the  wild  bee  wind  his  horn, 

The  bird  swings  on  the  ripened  wheat, 
The  long  green  lances  of  the  corn 
Are  tilting  in  the  winds  of  morn, 
The  locust  shrills  his  song  of  heat. 

Another  sound  my  spirit  hears, 

A  deeper  sound  that  drowns  them  all,  — 


106  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

A  voice  of  pleading  choked  with  tears, 
The  call  of  human  hopes  and  fears, 
The  Macedonian  cry  to  Paul ! 

The  storm-bell  rings,  the  trumpet  blows ; 

I  know  the  word  and  countersign ; 
Wherever  Freedom's  vanguard  goes, 
Where  stand  or  fall  her  friends  or  foes, 

I  know  the  place  that  should  be  mine. 

Shamed  be  the  hands  that  idly  fold, 

And  lips  that  woo  the  reed's  accord, 
When  laggard  Time  the  hour  has  tolled 
For  true  with  false  and  new  with  old 
To  fight  the  battles  of  the  Lord  ! 

0  brothers !  blest  by  partial  Fate 

With  power  to  match  the  will  and  deed, 
To  him  your  summons  comes  too  late 
Who  sinks  beneath  his  armor's  weight, 
And  has  no  answer  but  God-speed  ! 


THE     WAITING. 

I  WAIT  and  watch  :  before  my  eyes 
Me  thinks  the  night  grows  thin  and  gray  ; 
I  wait  and  watch  the  eastern  skies 
To  see  the  golden  spears  uprise 
Beneath  the  oriflamme  of  day ! 

Like  one  whose  limbs  are  bound  in  trance 

I  hear  the  day  sounds  swell  and  grow, 
And  see  across  the  twilight  glance, 
Troop  after  troop,  in  swift  advance, 

The  shining  ones  with  plumes  of  snow ! 

I  know  the  errand  of  their  feet, 

I  know  what  mighty  work  is  theirs ; 


108  OCCASIONAL   POEMS. 

I  can  but  lift  up  hands  unmeet, 
The  threshing-floors  of  G-od  to  beat, 
And  speed  them  with  unworthy  prayers, 

I  will  not  dream  in  vain  despair 

The  steps  of  progress  wait  for  me  : 
The  puny  leverage  of  a  hair 
The  planet's  impulse  well  may  spare, 
A  drop  of  dew  the  tided  sea. 

The  loss,  if  loss  there  be,  is  mine, 

And  yet  not  mine  if  understood  ; 
For  one  shall  grasp  and  one  resign, 
One  drink  life's  rue,  and  one  its  wine, 
And  God  shall  make  the  balance  good. 

0  power  to  do  !     0  baffled  will ! 

0  prayer  and  action  !  ye  are  one  ; 
Who  may  not  strive,  may  yet  fulfil 
The  harder  task  of  standing  still, 

And  good  but  wished  with  God  is  done ! 


MOUNTAIN    PICTURES. 


FRANCONIA  FROM   THE  PEMIGEWASSET. 

* 

ONCE  more,  0  Mountains  of  the  North, 
unveil 

Your  brows,  and  lay  your  cloudy  mantles  by  ! 
And  once  more,  ere  the  eyes  that  seek  ye  fail, 

Uplift  against  the  blue  walls  of  the  sky 
Your  mighty  shapes,  and  let  the  sunshine  weave 
Its  golden  network  in  your  belting  woods, 
Smile  down  in  rainbows  from  your  falling 

floods, 

And  on  your  kingly  brows  at  morn  and  eve 
Set  crowns  of  fire  !     So  shall  my  soul  receive 


110  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

Haply  the  secret  of  your  calm  and  strength, 
Your  unforgotten  beauty  interfuse 
My  common  life,  your  glorious  shapes  and 

hues 
And  sun-dropped  splendors  at  my  bidding 

come, 
Loom  vast  through  dreams,  and  stretch  in 

billowy  length 
From  the  sea-level  of  my  lowland  home  ! 

They  rise  before  me  !    Last  night's  thunder-gust 
Roared  not  in  vain :  for  where  its  lightnings 

thrust 
Their  tongues  of  fire,  the  great  peaks  seem  so 

near, 

Burned  clean  of  mist,  so  starkly  bold  and  clear, 
I  almost  pause  the  wind  in  the  pines  to  hear, 
The  loose  rock's  fall,  the  steps  of  browsing  deer. 
The  clouds  that  shattered  on  yon  slide-worn 

walls 


MOUNTAIN  PICTURES.  HI 

And  splintered  on  the  rocks  their  spears  of 

rain 

Have  set  in  play  a  thousand  waterfalls, 
Making  the  dusk  and  silence  of  the  woods 
Glad  with  the  laughter  of  the  chasing  floods, 
And   luminous   with   blown  spray  and   silver 

gleams, 
While,  in  the  vales  below,  the  dry-lipped  streams 

Sing  to  the  freshened  meadow-lands  again. 
So,  let  me  hope,  the  battle-storm  that  beats 
The  land  with  hail  and  fire  may  pass  away 
With  its  spent  thunders  at  the  break  of  day, 
Like  last  night's  clouds,  and  leave,  as  it  retreats, 
A  greener  earth  and  fairer  sky  behind, 
Blown  crystal-clear  by  Freedom's  Northern 
wind  I 


112  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 


II. 


MONADNOCK  FROM    WACHUSET. 

I  WOULD  I  were  a  painter,  for  the  sake 
Of  a  sweet  picture,  and  of  her  who  led 
A  fitting  guide,  with  reverential  tread, 
Into  that  mountain  mystery.     First  a  lake 
Tinted  with  sunset ;  next  the  wavy  lines 

Of  far  receding  hills ;  and  yet  more  far, 
Monadnock  lifting  from  his  night  of  pines 

His  rosy  forehead  to  the  evening  star. 
Beside  us,  purple-zoned,  Wachuset  laid 
His  head  against  the  West,  whose  warm  light 

made 

His  aureole  ;  and  o'er  him,  sharp  and  clear, 
Like  a  shaft  of  lightning  in  mid-launching  stayed, 
A  single  level  cloud-line,  shone  upon 
By  the  fierce  glances  of  the  sunken  sun, 
Menaced  the  darkness  with  its  golden  spear ! 


MOUNTAIN  PICTURES.  113 

So  twilight  deepened  round  us.     Still  and  black 
The  great  woods  climbed  the  mountain  at  our 

back; 

And  on  their  skirts,  where  yet  the  lingering  day 
On  the  shorn  greenness  of  the  clearing  lay, 
The  brown  old  farm-house  like  a  bird's  nest 

hung. 

With  home-life  sounds  the  desert  air  was  stirred : 
The  bleat  of  sheep  along  the  hill  we  heard, 
The  bucket  plashing  in  the  cool,  sweet  well, 
The  pasture-bars  that  clattered  as  they  fell ; 
Dogs  barked,  fowls  fluttered,  cattle  lowed  ;  the 

gate 
Of  the  barn-yard  creaked  beneath  the  merry 

weight 
Of  sun-brown  children,  listening,  while  they 

swung, 

The  welcome  sound  of  supper-call  to  hear ; 
And  down  the  shadowy  lane,  in  tinklings 

clear, 


114  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

The  pastoral  curfew  of  the  cow-bell  rung. 
Thus  soothed  and  pleased,  our  backward  path 

we  took, 

Praising  the  farmer's  home.     He  only  spake, 
Looking  into  the  sunset  o'er  the  lake, 

Like  one  to  whom  the  far-off  is  most  near : 
"  Yes,  most  folks  think  it  has  a  pleasant  look  ; 
I  love  it  for  my  good  old  mother's  sake, 
Who  lived  and  died  here  in  the  peace  of 

God ! " 

The  lesson  of  his  words  we  pondered  o'er, 
As  silently  we  turned  the  eastern  flank 
Of  the  mountain,  where  its   shadow   deepest 

sank, 

Doubling  the  night  along  our  rugged  road : 
We  felt  that  man  was  more  than  his  abode,  — 
The  inward  life  than  Nature's  raiment  more ; 
And  the  warm  sky,  the  sundown-tinted  hill, 
The  forest  and  the  lake,  seemed  dwarfed  and 
dim 


MOUNTAIN  PICTURES.  115 

Before  the  saintly  soul,  whose  human  will 
Meekly  in  the  Eternal  footsteps  trod, 
Making  her  homely  toil  and  household  ways 
An  earthly  echo  of  the  song  of  praise 

Swelling  from  angel  lips  and  harps  of  seraphim ! 


OUR     RIVER. 

FOB   A    SUMMER    FESTIVAL    AT    "  THE    LAURELS  " 
ON    THE    MERRIMACK. 

ONCE  more  on  yonder  laurelled  height 
The  summer  flowers  have  budded  ; 
Once  more  with  summer's  golden  light 

The  vales  of  home  are  flooded ; 
And  once  more,  by  the  grace  of  Him 

Of  every  good  the  Giver, 

We  sing  upon  its  wooded  rim 

The  praises  of  our  river  : 

Its  pines  above,  its  waves  below, 
The  west  wind  down  it  blowing, 


OUR  RIVER. 

As  fair  as  when  the  young  Brissot 
Beheld  it  seaward  flowing,  — 

And  bore  its  memory  o'er  the  deep, 
To  soothe  a  martyr's  sadness, 

And  fresco,  in  his  troubled  sleep. 
His  prison-walls  with  gladness. 


We  know  the  world  is  rich  with  streams 

Renowned  in  song  and  story, 
Whose  music  murmurs  through  our  dreams 

Of  human  love  and  glory  : 
We  know  that  Arno's  banks  are  fair, 

And  Rhine  has  castled  shadows, 
And,  poet-tuned,  the  Doon  and  Ayr 

Go  singing  down  their  meadows. 

But  while,  unpictured  and  unsung 

By  painter  or  by  poet, 
Our  river  waits  the  tuneful  tongue 

And  cunning  hand  to  show  it,  — 


118  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

We  only  know  the  fond  skies  lean 
Above  it,  warm  with  blessing, 

And  the  sweet  soul  of  our  Undine 
Awakes  to  our  caressing. 

No  fickle  Sun-God  holds  the  flocks 

That  graze  its  shores  in  keeping; 
No  icy  kiss  of  Dian  mocks 

The  youth  beside  it  sleeping  : 
Our  Christian  river  loveth  most 

The  beautiful  and  human ; 
The  heathen  streams  of  Naiads  boast, 

But  ours  of  man  and  women. 

The  miner  in  his  cabin  hears 
The  ripple  we  are  hearing  ; 

It  whispers  soft  to  homesick  ears 
Around  the  settler's  clearing : 

In  Sacramento's  vales  of  corn, 
Or  Santee's  bloom  of  cotton, 


OUR  RIVER.  119 

Our  river  by  its  valley-born 
Was  never  yet  forgotten. 

The  drum  rolls  loud,  —  the  bugle  fills 

The  summer  air  with  clangor  ; 
The  war-storm  shakes  the  solid  hills 

Beneath  its  tread  of  anger : 
Young  eyes  that  last  year  smiled  in  ours 

Now  point  the  rifle's  barrel, 
And  hands  then  stained  with  fruits  and  flowers 

Bear  redder  stains  of  quarrel. 

But  blue  skies  smile,  and  flowers  bloom  on, 

And  rivers  still  keep  flowing,  — 
The  dear  God  still  his  rain  and  sun 

On  good  and  ill  bestowing. 
His  pine-trees  whisper,  "  Trust  and  wait !  " 

His  flowers  are  prophesying 
That  all  we  dread  of  change  or  fate 

His  love  is  underlying. 


120  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

And  thou,  0  Mountain-born!  —  no  more 

We  ask  the  wise  Allotter 
Than  for  the  firmness  of  thy  shore, 

The  calmness  of  thy  water, 
The  cheerful  lights  that  overlay 

Thy  rugged  slopes  with  beauty, 
To  match  our  spirits  to  our  day 

And  make  a  joy  of  duty. 


ANDREW    RYKMAN'S    PRAYER. 


A    NDREW  RYKMAN  's  dead  and  gone 
-/    V     You  can  see  his  leaning  slate 
In  the  graveyard,  and  thereon 

Read  his  name  and  date. 


"  Trust  is  truer  than  our  fears  " 
Runs  the  legend  through  the  moss, 

"  Gain  is  not  in  added  years. 
Nor  in  death  is  loss." 


Still  the  feet  that  thither  trod, 
All  the  friendly  eyes  are  dim  ; 

Only  Nature,  now,  and  God 
Have  a  care  for  him. 

6 


122  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

There  the  dews  of  quiet  fall, 

Singing  birds  and  soft  winds  stray 

Shall  the  tender  Heart  of  all 
Be  less  kind  than  they  ? 

What  he  was  and  what  he  is 
They  who  ask  may  haply  find, 

If  they  read  this  prayer  of  his 
Which  he  left  behind. 


Pardon,  Lord,  the  lips  that  dare 
Shape  in  words  a  mortal's  prayer ! 
Prayer,  that,  when  my  day  is  done, 
And  I  see  its  setting  sun, 
Shorn  and  beamless,  cold  and  dim, 
Sink  beneath  the  horizon's  rim,  — 
When  this  ball  of  rock  and  clay 
Crumbles  from  my  feet  away, 
And  the  solid  shores  of  sense 


ANDREW  RYKMAN'S  PRAYER.       123 

Melt  into  the  vague  immense, 
Father !  I  may  come  to  Thee 
Even  with  the  beggar's  plea, 
As  the  poorest  of  Thy  poor, 
With  my  needs,  and  nothing  more. 

Not  as  one  who  seeks  his  home 
With  a  step  assured  I  come  ; 
Still  behind  the  tread  I  hear 
Of  my  life-companion,  Fear  ; 
Still  a  shadow  deep  and  vast 
From  my  westering  feet  is  cast, 
Wavering,  doubtful,  undefined, 
Never  shapen  nor  outlined : 
From  myself  the  fear  has  grown, 
And  the  shadow  is  my  own. 
Yet,  0  Lord,  through  all  a  sense 
Of  Thy  tender  providence 
Stays  my  failing  heart  on  Thee, 
And  confirms  the  feeble  knee  ; 


124  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

And,  at  times,  my  worn  feet  press 
Spaces  of  cool  quietness, 
Lilied  whiteness  shone  upon 
Not  by  light  of  moon  or  sun. 
Hours  there  be  of  inmost  calm, 
Broken  but  by  grateful  psalm, 
When  I  love  Thee  more  than  fear  Thee, 
And  Thy  blessed  Christ  seems  near  me, 
With  forgiving  look,  as  when 
He  beheld  the  Magdalen. 
Well  I  know  that  all  things  move 
To  the  spheral  rhythm  of  love,  — 
That  to  Thee,  0  Lord  of  all ! 
Nothing  can  of  chance  befall : 
Child  and  seraph,  mote  and  star, 
Well  Thou  knowest  what  we  are  ; 
Through  Thy  vast  creative  plan 
Looking,  from  the  worm  to  man, 
There  is  pity  in  Thine  eyes, 
But  no  hatred  nor  surprise. 


ANDREW  RYKMAN'S  PRAYER.       125 

Not  in  blind  caprice  of  will, 
Not  in  cunning  sleight  of  skill, 
Not  for  show  of  power,  was  wrought 
Nature's  marvel  in  Thy  thought. 
Never  careless  hand  and  vain 
Smites  these  chords  of  joy  and  pain ; 
No  immortal  selfishness 
Plays  the  game  of  curse  and  bless : 
Heaven  and  earth  are  witnesses 
That  Thy  glory  goodness  is. 
Not  for  sport  of  mind  and  force 
Hast  Thou  made  Thy  universe, 
But  as  atmosphere  and  zone 
Of  Thy  loving  heart  alone. 
Man,  who  walketh  in  a  show, 
Sees  before  him,  to  and  fro, 
Shadow  and  illusion  go  ; 
All  things  flow  and  fluctuate, 
Now  contract  and  now  dilate. 
In  the  welter  of  this  sea, 


126  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

Nothing  stable  is  but  Thee  ; 
In  this  whirl  of  swooning  trance, 
Thou  alone  art  permanence  ; 
All  without  Thee  only  seems, 
All  beside  is  choice  of  dreams. 
Never  yet  in  darkest  mood 
Doubted  I  that  Thou  wast  good, 
Nor  mistook  my  will  for  fate, 
Pain  of  sin  for  heavenly  hate,  — 
Never  dreamed  the  gates  of  pearl 
Rise  from  out  the  burning  marl, 
Or  that  good  can  only  live 
Of  the  bad  conservative, 
And  through  counterpoise  of  hell 
Heaven  alone  be  possible. 

For  myself  alone  I  doubt ; 
All  is  well,  I  know,  without ; 
I  alone  the  beauty  mar, 
I  alone  the  music  jar. 


ANDREW  RYKMAN'S  PRAYER.       127 

Yet,  with  hands  by  evil  stained, 
And  an  ear  by  discord  pained, 
I  am  groping  for  the  keys 
Of  the  heavenly  harmonies  ; 
Still  within  my  heart  I  bear 
Love  for  all  things  good  and  fair. 
Hands  of  want  or  souls  in  pain 
Have  not  sought  my  door  in  vain  ; 
I  have  kept  my  fealty  good 
To  the  human  brotherhood  ; 
Scarcely  have  I  asked  in  prayer 
That  which  others  might  not  share. 
I,  who  hear  with  secret  shame 
Praise  that  paineth  more  than  blame, 
Rich  alone  in  favors  lent, 
Virtuous  by  accident, 
Doubtful  where  I  fain  would  rest, 
Frailest  where  I  seem  the  best, 
Only  strong  for  lack  of  test,  — 
What  am  1,  that  I  should  press 


128  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

Special  pleas  of  selfishness, 
Coolly  mounting  into  heaven 
On  my  neighbor  unforgiven  ? 
Ne'er  to  me,  howe'er  disguised, 
Comes  a  saint  unrecognized ; 
Never  fails  my  heart  to  greet 
Noble  deed  with  warmer  beat ; 
Halt  and  maimed,  I  own  not  less 
All  the  grace  of  holiness ; 
Nor,  through  shame  or  self-distrust, 
Less  I  love  the  pure  and  just. 
Lord,  forgive  these  words  of  mine  : 
What  have  I  that  is  not  Thine  ?  — 
Whatsoe'er  I  fain  would  boast 
Needs  Thy  pitying  pardon  most. 
Thou,  0  Elder  Brother !  who 
In  Thy  flesh  our  trial  knew, 
Thou,  who  hast  been  touched  by  these 
Our  most  sad  infirmities, 
Thou  alone  the  gulf  canst  span 


ANDREW  RYKMAN'S  PRAYER.       129 

In  the  dual  heart  of  man, 

And  between  the  soul  and  sense 

Reconcile  all  difference, 

Change  the  dream  of  me  and  mine 

For  the  truth  of  Thee  and  Thine, 

And,  through  chaos,  doubt,  and  strife, 

Interfuse  Thy  calm  of  life. 

Haply,  thus  by  Thee  renewed, 

In  Thy  borrowed  goodness  good, 

Some  sweet  morning  yet  in  God's 

Dim,  aeonian  periods, 

Joyful  I  shall  wake  to  see 

Those  I  love  who  rest  in  Thee, 

And  to  them  in  Thee  allied 

Shall  my  soul  be  satisfied. 

Scarcely  Hope  hath  shaped  for  me 
What  the  future  life  may  be. 
Other  lips  may  well  be  bold ; 
Like  the  publican  of  old, 

6*  I 


130  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

I  can 'only  urge  the  plea, 
"  Lord,  be  merciful  to  me  !  " 
Nothing  of  desert  I  claim, 
Unto  me  belongeth  shame. 
Not  for  me  the  crowns  of  gold, 
Palms,  and  harpings  manifold  ; 
Not  for  erring  eye  and  feet 
Jasper  wall  and  golden  street. 
What  Thou  wilt,  0  Father,  give ! 
All  is  gain  that  I  receive. 
If  my  voice  I  may  not  raise 
In  the  elders'  song  of  praise, 
If  I  may  not,  sin-defiled, 
Claim  my  birthright  as  a  child, 
Suffer  it  that  I  to  Thee 
As  an  hired  servant  be  ; 
Let  the  lowliest  task  be  mine, 
Grateful,  so  the  work  be  Thine  ; 
Let  me  find  the  humblest  place 
In  the  shadow  of  Thy  grace  : 


ANDREW  RYKMAN'S  PRAYER.       131 

Blest  to  me  were  any  spot 
Where  temptation  whispers  not. 
If  there  be  some  weaker  one, 
Give  me  strength  to  help  him  on ; 
If  a  blinder  soul  there  be, 
Let  me  guide  him  nearer  Thee. 
Make  my  mortal  dreams  come  true 
With  the  work  I  fain  would  do  ; 
Clothe  with  life  the  weak  intent, 
Let  me  be  the  thing  I  meant ; 
Let  me  find  in  Thy  employ 
Peace  that  dearer  is  than  joy ; 
Out  of  self  to  love  be  led 
And  to  heaven  acclimated, 
Until  all  things  sweet  and  good 
Seem  my  natural  habitude. 


So  we  read  the  prayer  of  him 
Who,  with  John  of  Labadie, 


132  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

Trod,  of  old,  the  oozy  rim 
Of  the  Zuyder  Zee. 

Thus  did  Andrew  Rykman  pray, 
Are  we  wiser,  better  grown, 

That  we  may  not,  in  our  day, 
Make  his  prayer  our  own  ? 


THE    CRY   OF    A   LOST   SOUL* 

IN  that  black  forest,  where,  when   day  is 
done, 

With  a  snake's  stillness  glides  the  Amazon 
Darkly  from  sunset  to  the  rising  sun, 

A  cry,  as  of  the  pained  heart  of  the  wood, 
The  long,  despairing  moan  of  solitude 
And  darkness  and  the  absence  of  all  good, 


*  Lieut.  Herndon's  Report  of  the  Exploration  of  the  Amazon 
has  a  striking  description  of  the  peculiar  and  melancholy  notes 
of  a  bird  heard  by  night  on  the  shores  of  the  river.  The  Indian 
guides  called  it  "  The  Cry  of  a  lost  Soul " ! 


134  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

Startles  the  traveller,  with  a  sound  so  drear. 

So  full  of  hopeless  agony  and  fear, 

His  heart  stands  still  and  listens  like  his  ear. 

The  guide,  as  if  he  heard  a  dead-bell  toll, 
Starts,  drops  his  oar  against  the  gunwale's  thole, 
Crosses  himself,  and  whispers,  "  A  lost  soul !  " 

"  No,  Senor,  not  a  bird.     I  know  it  well, — 
It  is  the  pained  soul  of  some  infidel 
Or  curse'd  heretic  that  cries  from  hell. 

"  Poor  fool !  with  hope  still  mocking  his  despair, 
He  wanders,  shrieking  on  the  midnight  air 
For  human  pity  and  for  Christian  prayer. 

"  Saints  strike  him  dumb  !     Our  Holy  Mother 

hath 

No  prayer  for  him  who,  sinning  unto  death, 
Burns  always  in  the  furnace  of  God's  wrath !  " 


THE    CRY  OF  A    LOST  SOUL.         135 

Thus  to  the  baptized  pagan's  cruel  lie, 
Lending  new  horror  to  that  mournful  cry, 
The  voyager  listens,  making  no  reply. 

Dim   burns   the    boat-lamp :    shadows   deepen 

round, 

From  giant  trees  with  snakelike  creepers  wound, 
And  the  black  water  glides  without  a  sound. 

But  in  the  traveller's  heart  a  secret  sense 
Of  nature  plastic  to  benign  intents, 
And  an  eternal  good  in  Providence, 

Lifts  to  the  starry  calm  of  heaven  his  eyes ; 
And  lo  !  rebuking  all  earth's  ominous  cries, 
The  Cross  of  pardon  lights  the  tropic  skies ! 

"  Father  of  all !  "  he  urges  his  strong  plea, 
"  Thou  lovest  all :  thy  erring  child  may  be 
Lost  to  himself,  but  never  lost  to  Thee ! 


136  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

"  All  souls  are  Thine ;  the  wings  of  morning 

bear 

None  from  that  Presence  which  is  everywhere, 
Nor  hell  itself  can  hide,  for  Thou  art  there. 

"  Through  sins  of  sense,  perversities  of  will, 
Through  doubt  and  pain,  through  guilt  and 

shame  and  ill, 
Thy  pitying  eye  is  on  Thy  creature  still. 

"  Wilt  thou  not  make,  Eternal  Source  and  Goal ! 
In  Thy  long  years,  life's  broken  circle  whole, 
And  change  to  praise  the  cry  of  a  lost  soul  ?  " 


ITALY. 

ACROSS  the  sea  I  heard  the  groans 
Of  nations  in  the  intervals 
Of  wind  and  wave.     Their  blood  and  bones 
Cried  out  in  torture,  crushed  by  thrones, 
And  sucked  by  priestly  cannibals. 


I  dreamed  of  freedom  slowly  gained 

By  martyr  meekness,  patience,  faith. 
And  lo  !  an  athlete  grimly  stained, 
With  corded  muscles  battle-strained, 
Shouting  it  from  the  fields  of  death  ! 


138  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

I  turn  me,  awe-struck,  from  the  sight, 

Among  the  clamoring  thousands  mute, 
I  only  know  that  God  is  right, 
And  that  the  children  of  the  light 
Shall  tread  the  darkness  under  foot. 


I  know  the  pent  fire  heaves  its  crust, 
That  sultry  skies  the  bolt  will  form 
To  smite  them  clear ;  that  Nature  must 
The  balance  of  her  powers  adjust, 

Though  with  the  earthquake  and  the  storm. 


God  reigns,  and  let  the  earth  rejoice  ! 

I  bow  before  His  sterner  plan. 
Dumb  are  the  organs  of  my  choice  ; 
He  speaks  in  battle's  stormy  voice, 

His  praise  is  in  the  wrath  of  man  ! 


ITALY. 


139 


Yet,  surely  as  He  lives,  the  day 

Of  peace  He  promised  shall  be  ours, 
To  fold  the  flags  of  war,  and  lay 
Its  sword  and  spear  to  rusfaway, 

And  sow  its  ghastly  fields  with  flowers ! 


THE     RIVER     PATH. 


N 


0  bird-song  floated  down  the  hill, 
The  tangled  bank  below  was  still ; 


No  rustle  from  the  birchen  stem, 
No  ripple  from  the  water's  hem. 

The  dusk  of  twilight  round  us  grew, 
We  felt  the  falling  of  the  dew  ; 


For,  from  us,  ere  the  day  was  done, 
The  wooded  hills  shut  out  the  sun. 


THE   RIVER   PATH.  141 

But  on  the  river's  farther  sicle 
We  saw  the  hill-tops  glorified,  — 

A  tender  glow,  exceeding  fair, 
A  dream  of  day  without  its  glare. 

With  us  the  damp,  the  chill,  the  gloom : 
With  them  the  sunset's  rosy  bloom ; 

While  dark,  through  willowy  vistas  seen, 
The  river  rolled  in  shade  between. 

From  out  the  darkness  where  wo  trod 
We  gazed  upon  those  hills  of  God, 

Whose  light  seemed  not  of  moon  or  sun. 
We  spake  not,  but  our  thought  was  one. 

We  paused,  as  if  from  that  bright  shore 
Beckoned  our  dear  ones  gone  before ; 


142  OCCASIONAL   POEMS. 

And  stilled  our  beating  hearts  to  hear 
The  voices  lost  to  mortal  ear ! 

Sudden  our  pathway  turned  from  night ; 
The  hills  swung  open  to  the  light ; 

Through  their  green  gates  the  sunshine  showed, 
A  long,  slant  splendor  downward  flowed. 

Down  glade  and  glen  and  bank  it  rolled ; 
It  bridged  the  shaded  stream  with  gold  ; 

And,  borne  on  piers  of  mist,  allied 
The  shadowy  with  the  sunlit  side  ! 

"  So,"  prayed  we,  "  when  our  feet  draw  near 
The  river,  dark  with  mortal  fear, 

"  And  the  night  cometh  chill  with  dew, 
0  Father !  — let  thy  light  break  through  ! 


THE  RIVER   PATH.  143 

"  So  let  the  hills  of  doubt  divide, 
So  bridge  with  faith  the  sunless  tide ! 

"  So  let  the  eyes  that  fail  on  earth 
On  thy  eternal  hills  look  forth  ; 

"  And  in  thy  beckoning  angels  know 
The  dear  ones  whom  we  loved  below !  " 


A    MEMORIAL. 

M.  A.  C. 

O  thicker,  deeper,  darker  growing, 
The  solemn  vista  to  the  tomb 
Must  know  henceforth  another  shadow, 
And  give  another  cypress  room. 


In  love  surpassing  that  of  brothers, 

We  walked,  0  friend,  from  childhood's  day ; 

And,  looking  back  o'er  fifty  summers, 
Our  foot-prints  track  a  common  way. 


A   MEMORIAL.  145 

One  in  our  faith,  and  one  our  longing 
To  make  the  world  within  our  rench 

Somewhat  the  better  for  our  living, 
And  gladder  for  our  human  speech. 

Thou  heardst  with  me  the  far-off  voices, 

The  old  beguiling  song  of  fame, 
But  life  to  thee  was  warm  and  present, 

And  love  was  better  than  a  name. 

To  homely  joys  and  loves  and  friendships 

Thy  genial  nature  fondly  clung ; 
And  so  the  shadow  on  the  dial 

Ran  back  and  left  thee  always  young. 

And  who  could  blame  the  generous  weakness 

Which,  only  to  thyself  unjust, 
So  overprized  the  worth  of  others, 

And  dwarfed  thy  own  with  self-distrust  ? 

7  j 


146  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

All  hearts  grew  warmer  in  the  presence 
Of  one  who,  seeking  not  his  own, 

Gave  freely  for  the  love  of  giving, 
Nor  reaped  for  self  the  harvest  sown. 

Thy  greeting  smile  was  pledge  and  prelude 
Of  generous  deeds  and  kindly  words ; 

In  thy  large  heart  were  fair  guest-chambers, 
Open  to  sunrise  and  the  birds  ! 

The  task  was  thine  to  mould  and  fashion 
Life's  plastic  newness  into  grace  ; 

To  make  the  boyish  heart  heroic, 
And  light  with  thought  the  maiden's  face. 

O'er  all  the  land,  in  town  and  prairie, 
With  bended  heads  of  mourning,  stand 

The  living  forms  that  owe  their  beauty 
And  fitness  to  thy  shaping  hand. 


A    MEMORIAL.  147 

Thy  call  has  come  in  ripened  manhood, 
The  noonday  calm  of  heart  and  mind, 

While  I,  who  dreamed  of  thy  remaining 
To  mourn  me,  linger  still  behind : 

Live  on,  to  own,  with  self-upbraiding, 
A  debt  of  love  still  due  from  me,  — 

The  vain  remembrance  of  occasions, 
Forever  lost,  of  serving  thee. 

It  was  not  mine  among  thy  kindred 
To  join  the  silent  funeral  prayers, 

But  all  that  long  sad  day  of  summer 

My  tears  of  mourning  dropped  with  theirs. 

All  day  the  sea-waves  sobbed  with  sorrow, 
The  birds  forgot  their  merry  trills  ; 

All  day  I  heard  the  pines  lamenting 
With  thine  upon  thy  homestead  hills. 


148  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

Green  be  those  hillside  pines  forever, 
And  green  the  meadowy  lowlands  be, 

And  green  the  old  memorial  beeches, 
Name-carven  in  the  woods  of  Lee  ! 

Still  let  them  greet  thy  life  companions 
Who. thither  turn  their  pilgrim  feet, 

In  every  mossy  line  recalling 
A  tender  memory  sadly  sweet. 

0  friend  !  if  thought  and  sense  avail  not 
To  know  thee  henceforth  as  thou  art, 

That  all  is  well  with  thee  forever 
I  trust  the  instincts  of  my  heart. 

Thine  be  the  quiet  habitations, 

Thine  the  green  pastures,  blossom-sown, 
And  smiles  of  saintly  recognition, 

As  sweet  and  tender  as  thy  own. 


A   MEMORIAL.  149 

Thou  com'st  not  from  the  hush  and  shadow 
To  meet  us,  but  to  thee  we  come ; 

With  thee  we  never  can  be  strangers, 
And  where  thou  art  must  still  be  home ! 


HYMN. 

SUNG   AT    CHRISTMAS    BY   THE    SCHOLARS    OF    ST. 

HELENA'S  ISLAND,  s.  c. 

ONONE  in  all  the  world  before 
Were  ever  glad  as  we ! 
We  're  free  on  Carolina's  shore, 
We  're  all  at  home  and  free. 


Thou  Friend  and  Helper  of  the  poor, 
Who  suffered  for  our  sake, 

To  open  every  prison  door, 
And  every  yoke  to  break  ! 


HYMN.  151 

Bend  low  thy  pitying  face  and  mild, 

And  help  us  sing  and  pray ; 
The  hand  that  blessed  the  little  child, 

Upon  our  foreheads  lay. 

We  hear  no  more  the  driver's  horn, 

No  more  the  whip  we  fear, 
This  holy  day  that  saw  thee  born 

Was  never  half  so  dear. 


The  very  oaks  are  greener  clad, 

The  waters  brighter  smile  ; 
0  never  shone  a  day  so  glad, 

On  sweet  St.  Helen's  Isle. 

We  praise  thee  in  our  songs  to-day, 

To  thee  in  prayer  we  call, 
Make  swift  the  feet  and  straight  the  way 

Of  freedom  unto  all. 


152  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

Come  once  again,  0  blessed  Lord ! 

Come  walking  on  the  sea ! 
And  let  the  mainlands  hear  the  word 

That  sets  the  islands  free  ! 


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